272    722 


CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

1872-1933 


This  book  belonged  to  Chauncey  Wetmore  Wells.  He  taught  in 
Yale  College,  of  which  he  was  a  graduate,  from  1897  to  1901,  and 
from  1901  to  1933  at  this  University. 

Chauncey  Wells  was,  essentially,  a  scholar.  The  range  of  his  read- 
ing was  wide,  the  breadth  of  his  literary  sympathy  as  uncommon 
as  the  breadth  of  his  human  sympathy.  He  was  less  concerned 
with  the  collection  of  facts  than  with  meditation  upon  their  sig- 
nificance. His  distinctive  power  lay  in  his  ability  to  give  to  his 
students  a  subtle  perception  of  the  inner  implications  of  form, 
of  manners,  of  taste,  of  the  really  disciplined  and  discriminating 
mind.  And  this  perception  appeared  not  only  in  his  thinking  and 
teaching  but  also  in  all  his  relations  with  books  and  with  men. 


TRINITY    VERSE 


A  SECOND  COMPILATION 

FROM 

"THE    TRINITY    TABLET" 

1868-1895 
AND  OTHER  UNDERGRADUATE  PUBLICATIONS 


EDITED  BY 

DEFOREST  HICKS  »96 

/7 

HENRY  RUTGERS  REMSEN  '98 


Edition  Limited 


Ibartforb  Conn. 

press  of  Tlbe  Case  Xocfcwoob  &  3Bratnar&  Company 
M  DCCC  xcv 


IN  MEMORIAM 


"  Heureux  gut  dans  ses  vers  salt  d'une  voix  leg  ere 
Passer  du  grave  au  doux,  du  plaisant  au  severe  " 

—  BOILEAU 


863737 


TO 

PROFESSOR  W.    R.  MARTIN  LL.B.  PH.D. 

AS  A  SLIGHT 

RECOGNITION   OF  HIS   INTEREST 

IN   THE   LITERATURE  OF  THE  COLLEGE 

THIS  BOOK   IS   GRATEFULLY 

DEDICATED 


THE  kind  reception  given  the  former 
volume  of  Trinity  Verse,  and  the  ex- 
cellent material  which  had  appeared 
since  its  publication,  suggested  that  a  new 
collection  might  not  only  prove  acceptable 
to  those  who  were  unable  to  procure  copies 
of  the  former  edition,  but  also  be  an  addi- 
tion to  college  literature.  In  compiling  the 
present  volume,  the  editors  have  not  been 
restricted  in  their  choice  by  the  fact  that  the 
verse  had  appeared  in  the  former  one,  but 
have  tried  to  make  the  book  thoroughly  rep- 
resentative of  the  best  effort  of  the  College. 
Although  among  the  new  selections,  which 
comprise  more  than  half  of  this  book,  the 
greater  part  has  appeared  within  the  last 
five  years,  still  not  a  few  have  been  found 
ir^  old  files,  which,  omitted  from  the  former 
edition,  now  appear  for  the  first  time.  In 
presenting  this  book,  the  editors  wish  to 
thank  not  only  the  former  compilers  for  their 
sanction  of  the  undertaking,  but  also  all 
those  who  by  their  kindly  interest  have  in 
any  way  assisted  them  in  their  work. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

All  In  The  Name     W.  P.  Niles  'ft?,  In  Life  xxv.  132          .        108 

Alma  Mater    A.  Mackay-Smith  '72,  In  Times  .           .         38 

At  Christmas  Tide     W.  F.  Collins  '<??,  xxv.  51  15 

Atlantis    A.  Dyer  '70    Class-Day  Poem,  1870  .           .         67 

At  The  Play    xv.  16  .105 

At  The  Symphony    R.  Burton  '<£?,  xxix.  56.  13 

At  Whist    F.  W.  Newshafer  '97,  xxvii.  206  .  .106 

Blight    H.  M.  Belden  '88,  xxiv.  15  -59 

"Brief  as  Woman's  Love  "    P.  H.  Frye  '&),  xxix.  90        .         94 

Court  Jester,  The    xxvi.  29                  .           .  .           .46 

Dance  Of  Life,  The    xxv.  60     ...  -93 

Dream,  A    xxvii.  65  -45 

Drunken  Dream,  A    xxv.  142    ..  .         34 

Farewell  Song     G.  W.  Ellis  '94,  xxvii.  160    .  .            .        in 

Fearful  Strait,  A    C.  E.  Taylor,  '92,  xxiv.  96  .109 

Fisherman's  Daughter,  The    xxvii.  86          .  14 

Flower  Girl,  The     W.  F.  Collins  '?j,  xxvi.  39  .                     20 

From  the  Persian  of  Hafiz    i.  77          .  .         62 

Futurity    R.  C.  Tongue  '95,  '95  Ivy      .  .         35 
Ghosts    xxv.  83      .......         98 

Greco-Trojan  Game,  The    C.  F.  Johnson,  xxi.  127 .  .         77 

Her  Name    xxvi.  in        ...  -37 

Her  Satin  Fan   /.  Goodwin  '<$&,  xx.  6  .            .  .32 

Hymn  to  the  Flag    H.  M.  Belden  '88,  xxvi.  268  .            .        no 

In  Passing     W.  F.  Collins  ?9J,  xxv.  17             .  .            -87 

La  Muse  S' Amuse     W.  F.  Collins  '97,  xxvi.  in  .           .          73 

Landlord  and  Tenant    R,  Burton  'Sj,  xxix.  56  .74 

L'Estudiantina    C.  G.  Childs  '<#>,  xxv.  108    .  .           .          27 

Life  and  Death    F.  W.  Newshafer  '97,  xxvii.  182  .           .          21 

Life's  Greeting    A.  L.  Green  '97,  xxiv.  58     .  .           .87 

Love  Laughs     xxvi.  134  .  .          50 
9 


Contents 


Page 

Love's  Secret    R.  P.  Bates  '97,  xxiv.  106       .  .         47 
Love's  Service    xxiv.  73             .....         99 

Love's  Vision     W.  W.  Parsons  '96,  xxvii.  233         .  .         72 

March    F.  W.  Newshafer  '97,  xxvii.  180       .  .         42 

Marigold    H.  S.  Candee  '97,  xxiv.  75   .           .  .98 

Marryin'  of  Danny  Deever,  The    xxvi.  71    .            .  .        102 

Mercutio    H.  M.  Belden  '88,  xx.  41      ..  .26 

Modern  Romans,  The    C.  F.Johnson,  '96  Ivy          .  .          55 

Motiveless    H.  S.  Candee  '93,  xxiii.  118          .           .  .         92 

New  England    H.  M.  Belden  'SS,  xxiv.  122   .           .  .         22 

Now  and  Then    xxvi.  147            .  .          IQ 
Ode  From  Anacreon    G.  O.  Holbrook  '69,  Lippincotfs  Mag.    90 

Old  Epitaph,  An    xxiv.  24          ...  .64 

On  a  Christmas  Box    xxiv.  57  ...  -43 

Past  Prime    P.  H.  Frye  '<S?,  xxiv.  54   .  .89 

Past,  The     W.  F.  Collins  '<?j,  xxiv.  44             .  .64 

Phillips  Brooks     G.  W.  Ellis  '94,  xxvi.  68      .            .  -53 

Postgraduate    R,  C.  Tongue  '95,  '9J  Ivy  75 

Prob.  Phil.     C.  E.  Taylor  '92,  xxv.  44  .           .           .  .88 

Question,  A    xxvi.  122    ....  .        101 

Question    R.  C.  Tongue  '95,  xxix.  89   .           .           .  .51 

Reason,  The     W.  P.  Niles  '97,  xxiv.  148                    .  .        101 
Retribution     W.  F.  Collins'qj,  xxiv.  116'     ...          76 
Rex  Sum    H.  R.  Remsen  V?,  xxviii.  180        ...          58 

Rondeau:   Oil  sont  les  neiges    xxvii.  85  .25 

Rondeau    C.  E.  Taylor  '92,  xxv.  61     .           .           .  .61 

Sculptor,  The    xxv.  144  .           .           .           .           .  .       *  16 

Senior's  Plea,  A   /.  C.  Underwood  '96,  xxviii.  88    .  .        108 

Shy  Little  Maid,  A    xxvii.  65    .            .           .            .  -93 

Solomon    H.  R.  Remsen  '?<?,  xxix.  9    .           .           .  .96 

Song  of  the  Flag    R.  Burton  'Sj,  '96  Ivy       .  ...          65 

Spray  of  Holly,  A    R.  C.  Tongue  '95,  xxv.  61  .49 

Summer  Night,  A    R.  Burton  '<%>,  xxix.  90  .            .  -54 

Their  King    xxvii.  112         .            .            .        .            .  .63 

To As  She  Playeth    P.  H.  Frye  '89,  xxiv.  103  .          85 

To  Robert  Louis  Stevenson    H.  R.  Remsen  '9^,  xxix  .          33 

Town  and  Country     W.  F.  Collins  '93.  xxiv.  20      .  .48 

Trinity  Echoes    M.  K.  Bailey  '79,  xv.  51          .  .31 


TRINITY  VERSE 


TRINITY   VERSE 


AT  THE  SYMPHONY 

I   SIT  and  listen  and  love  it  all, 
Here  by  the  orchestra. 
The  violins,  how  they  plead  and  call, 
Taking  the  voice  of  her ! 

The  brasses  brave  have  a  martial  tone, 

The  cymbals  clash  in  strife  ; 
The  grave  bassoons  half  muse,  half  moan, 

Chanting  the  deeps  of  life. 

The  'cellos  brood  and  the  flutes  rise  clear 

In  a  cry  that  soars  and  sings  ; 
The  rippling  harps  ensnare  mine  ear 

With  a  vibrant  rush  of  wings. 

O  sweet  with  words  no  lips  may  dare, 

This  speech  of  the  orchestra ! 
And  yet,  that  burst  from  the  wood-wind  there, 

Was  it  weal  or  woe  of  her  ? 

Richard  Burton 


.  V  i  ; 


Dcrsc 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  DAUGHTER 


A 


MAIDEN  lived  by  the  river  side 

Where  the  river  meets  the  ocean's  tide. 
Oh,  ferry  me  over  the  ferry. 


She  took  my  youthful  heart  in  fee, 
For  she  was  fair  as  fair  could  be, 

As  she  rowed  across  in  her  wherry. 

Her  hair  was  as  bright  as  the  waves  of  a  rill 
When  the  sun  on  the  eve  of  his  setting  stands 

still, 
Her  lips  were  as  red  as  a  cherry. 

A  sea-king's  daughter  she  might  have  been, 
Or  a  maid  of  honor  to  ocean's  queen,  » 

To  me  she  was  tender  and  merry. 

But  the  world's  strong  current  casts  aside 
Young  love,  like  drifts  torn  up  by  the  tide, 
And  time  all  passions  can  bury. 


Though  years  have  come  and  have  gone  again, 
In  my  heart  still  echoes  the  old  refrain  : 
"Oh,  ferry  me  over  the  ferry  ! " 


AT  CHRISTMAS-TIDE 

AY !  Men  were  men  in  England's  merry  days ! 
What  Christmas  cheer  there  was  when  in 

the  hall 

Jest  answered  jest,  while  yeomen  stout  and  tall 
Bore  in  the  Yule-log  on  the  hearth  to  blaze, 
And  deep   draughts  drained  the  wassail  bowl, 

which  sprays 

Of  mistletoe  and  holly  wreathed  !    For  all 

Was  revelry,  while,  by  the  moon-lit  wall, 

Sweet  carols  rose  of  mingled  love  and  praise. 

And  are  we  changed  ?    Have  we,  then,  lost  that 

thrill 

Of  joy  that  touched  men's  hearts  so  long  ago? 
And  has  the  world  grown  cold  ?    Nay !    For 

our  pride, 

Our  selfishriess,  are  only  masks.     Good- will 
And  Peace  reign  now  as  ever.     Let  us  show 
The  Christian  spirit  then  at  Christmas-tide. 
William  French  Collins 


Deree 


THE    SCULPTOR 

LONG    years    the    sculptor    dreamed    and 
wrought, 

To  realize  in  stone  the  thought 
Of  Christ  the  Saviour,  blessed  Lord, 
The  hope  of  man,  the  Incarnate  Word. 
His  hand  was  skilled;  men  said  that  he 
Was  master  of  art's  mystery, 
And  he  was  studious,  reverent,  wise. 
Long  years  he  failed  to  realize 
In  stone  the  ideal  he  labored  o'er; 
With  each  attempt  dissatisfied, 
He  every  morning  cast  aside 
What  he  had  done  the  day  before. 

At  last  he  seemed,  one  happy  day, 
To  reach  his  aim  ;  the  plastic  clay 
Took  from  his  hand  the  sure  impress 
Which  wrought  in  marble  might  express 
The  Prophet-priest  of  David's  line 
Who  linked  the  human  and  divine. 

Then,  when  his  labor  was  complete, 
He  called  a  child  from  out  the  street. 
"  Dear  child,"  he  said,   "Now  tell  me  true, 
Whom  does  this  statue  seem  to  you  ?  " 
The  child  looked  on  the  solemn  head, 
Serene  and  loving  ;  then  she  said, 

16 


Sculptor 


"  'T\s  some  good  angel  from  above 

That  brings  to  man  God's  words  of  love." 

The  sculptor  mused,   "My  work  is  nought 

But  human  skill  and  human  thought; 

A  little  child's  pure  eyes  can  see 

Its  failure  from  divinity; 

Trusting  too  much  the  artist  mood, 

I've  lost  the  sense  of  brotherhood; 

I've  looked  within,  I  have  not  been 

A  fellow-man  with  fellow-men. 

Christ  loved  mankind;  He  did  not  shun 

The  sinner  nor  the  publican." 

The  chisel  dropped  from  his  nerveless  hand, 

He  wandered  homeless  through  the  land. 

His  heart  went  out  to  men's  distress, 

He  ate  the  bread  of  loneliness, 

He  helped  the  outcast  and  the  poor, 

He  cheered  the  convict's  dying  hour; 

In  sorrow,  sickness,  pain,  and  strife, 

He  learned  the  bitterness  of  life. 

Once  more  he  felt  the  fierce  unrest, 
Thrilled  with  ideals  unexpressed. 
And  sought  again  his  workshop  door. 
The  unused  tools  lay  on  the  floor, 
The  sunbeams  fell  on  cast  and  bust, 
The  work-bench  white  with  marble  dust, 
The  tools  he  left  with  downcast  heart 
Feeling  the  failure  of  his  art. 


{Trinity  tferse 


He  wrought  with  fasting  and  with  prayer, 

With  trance  and  vision  on  the  air, 

He  saw  the  loving,  pitying  eyes, 

The  brow  o'ercast  with  sacrifice. 

The  Christ  of  sorrow,  the  Christ  of  pain, 

He  yearned  to  form  that  men  might  see 

The  eternal  strength  of  sympathy. 

He  wrought  in  feverish  haste,  as  one 

Who  knows  that  he  must  soon  be  gone, 

But  not  until  his  work  be  done. 

Again  his  labor  was  complete, 
He  called  the  child  from  out  the  street. 
"Dear  child,"  he  said,  "Now  tell  me  true, 
Whom  does  this  statue  look  to  you  ?  " 
The  child  looked  up,  "  Oh,  this  is  He 
Who  said,  'Let  children  come  to  me;' 
This  is  the  Lord  who  loved  men  so, 
And  died  for  us  long  years  ago." 

"I  thank  Thee,  Lord,"  the  master  cried, 
"  That  this  pure  child  has  testified, 
I've  learned  through  human  sympathy 
Some  faint  conception,  Lord,  of  Thee. 
Oh,  may  it  be  within  Thy  grace 
I  soon  may  see  Thee,  face  to  face." 

The  master's  head  dropped  on  his  breast, 
His  "long  disquiet  merged  in  rest." 
That  night  he  died  ;  around  his  bed 
The  awed  attendants,  whispering,  said, 
"  The  pale,  thin  face  was  like  the  one 
That  he  last  wrought  in  flawless  stone." 
18 


IRow  anfc  Cben 


NOW  AND  THEN 


OTHE  days,  and  O  the  dances 
Of  that  olden, 
Golden 

Time. 

Swords  and  lances, 
Tender  glances, 

Love  and  laughter,  war  and  rhyme 
Made  the  wide  world  all  romances, 
Life  a  song,  a  wedding  chime  ! 

II 

Ho,  sad  Sir,  I  match  the  Present 
With  your  dusty, 
Rusty 

Time! 

Knight  and  peasant, 
Cross  and  crescent, 

These  have  passed,  but  life's  old  chime 
Rings  the  same,  now  sad,  now  pleasant  — 
Tears,  love,  laughter,  joy,  and  crime  ! 


TDerse 


THE  FLOWER  GIRL 

SHE  stands  apart  —  the  gay  throng  pass  her  by. 
What  care  they  that  the  little  hands  are  cold 
And  tears  are  falling  on  the  flowers  unsold  ? 
The  tumult  of  the  city  drowns  her  cry, 
So  weak  it  is.     Perchance  some  one  may  sigh 
Perceiving  her  —  but  Poverty  is  old, 
And  it  is  fitting  in  this  Age  of  Gold 
That  some  should  weep  —  Thank  God,  our  eyes 
are  dry ! 

William  French  Collins 


20 


Xife  and  2>eatb 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 
• 

TWO  snowflakes  born  of  winter's  storm 
Fell  through  the  air  — 
Two  downy  flakes  of  star-like  form, 

Beyond  compare. 
One  rested  on  the  sun-kissed  ground, 

And  there  it  died  : 

While  one  a  sheltering  ice-drift  found, 
And  death  defied. 

Two  human  souls,  by  God's  decree, 

Were  sent  to  earth  ; 
Each  with  a  different  destiny 

Was  given  birth. 
One  struggled  'gainst  an  evil  fate, 

Nor  long  survived : 
The  other,  born  to  happier  state, 

Grew  strong  and  thrived. 

Oh,  who  can  solve  the  hidden  sense 

Of  God's  design  ? 
We  trust  in  His  omnipotence 

And  love  divine. 
The  man  who  dies  before  his  prime, 

Perhaps  is  blest ; 
He  longest  lives,  who  in  his  time 

Has  lived  the  best. 

Frederick  William  Newshafer 
21 


Iflerse 


NEW  ENGLAND 

O  MOTHER  of  our  land, 
Is  our  love  fled  away 
Because  thy  hair  is  gray 
And  hard  and  thin  thy  hand  ? 

Stern  struggles  with  the  soil 
Of  thy  rough,  barren  hills 
And  wind  that  stiffs  and  chills  — 

We  know  thy  bitter  toil. 

No  longer  young  and  fair 
Art  thou,  as  thou  hast  been  ; 
No.     Stern  thy  mouth,  and  thin 

Thy  lips,  and  sad  thine  air. 

Since  thy  young  motherhood 
Thou  hast  been  sore  beset 
By  toil  and  pain,  to  get 

Enough  to  feed  thy  brood. 

The  life  which  thou  hast  known 
Has  brought  no  holidays, 
Nor  taught  thee  winning  ways 

To  hold  their  love  when  grown. 

The  easy,  generous  grace 
Which  comes  of  peaceful  life 
Flees  from  the  weary  strife 

Whose  scars  are  on  thy  face. 


From  dawning,  in  the  frost, 
Till  after  twilight  came 
Thy  work  was  still  the  same  ; 

No  moment  might  be  lost. 

And  so  thy  sons  have  grown 
Strong,  rich  in  life  and  thought, 
And  goods  thy  toil  hath  brought, 

And  harvests  thou  hast  sown. 

And  now  they  mock  thy  ways, 
And,  through  the  mighty  West 
Advancing,  scorn  the  nest 

That  nursed  their  younger  days. 

There  are  a  few  who  stay, 
Whose  eyes  have  learned  to  see 
Thy  voiceless  majesty 

E'en  in  its  robes  of  gray. 

Who  see  the  eager  pain 
That  works  upon  thy  face  — 
Though  thou  wouldst  hide  its  trace 

When  love  is  foiled  again. 

Thou  couldst  not  speak  thy  love, 
Thou  canst  not  speak  thy  grief  ; 
There  might  be  some  relief 

In  utterance  thereof. 

But  thy  words  still  are  deeds, 
And  still  thy  deeds  are  words 
Save  to  the  soulless  herds 

That  know  not  flowers  from  weeds. 


23 


IDcrse 


O  mother  of  our  land, 

Upon  thy  thousand  hills 

Sitting,  what  glory  fills 
Thy  face  of  high  command  ! 

The  will  and  power  to  do 
Through  heat  and  frost  and  rain 
Thy  work  and  not  complain, 

Shall  have  their  fruit  in  you. 

Thy  God  is  still  above ; 

Thy  children  shall  arise 

And  with  anointed  eyes 
See  and  reward  thy  love  ! 

Henry  Marvin  Belden 


IRonDcau:  Ou  Sent  lea 


RONDEAU:  OU  SONT  LES  NEIGES? 
/^~^V  u  sont  les  neiges  ?  "    Full  softly  rings, 


The  smitten  harp.     The  old  air  brings 
Sweet  specters  surging  back  once  more, 
Fair  faces  loved  when  young  Life  wore 
Gay  robes  and  sang  of  pleasant  things. 

Ay  !  As  she  plays,  pale  Memory  flings 
Her  gold  gates  wide.     The  broad,  white  wings 
Of  Love  flash  forth  and  upward  soar  — 
Ou  sont  les  neiges  ? 

Full  softly  sound  the  stricken  strings, 

As  into  words  my  musing  springs  : 

"  Ah,  me  !    Where  is  the  love  we  swore 
In  those  glad,  golden  years  of  yore?"  — 

OU  sont  les  neiges  d'antan  ?  "  she  sings.      . 
Oil  sont  les  neiges  ? 


Grfnitg  IDersc 


MERCUTIO 

PL  AGUE  o'  both  your  houses !"    Well 

he  knew 

He  had  his  death  wound  ;  yet  a  spirit  made 
For  mirth  and  sparkle  could  not  be  afraid 
Because,  forsooth,  a  rapier  thrust  him  through. 
His  happy,  steadfast  nature,  ever  true 
To  friends  and  honor,  through  his  wit's  cascade, 
Gleamed  like  a    silver  rock   o'er  which   still 

played 

The  dancing  waves  of  fancy,  till  death  drew 
The  flood-gates  fast  forever. 

Not  alone 

Art  thou,  Verona's  ruler,  in  thy  grief, 
Nor  are  thy  citizens  the  only  train 
Of  mourners  for  him.     All  the  world  makes 

moan. 

Yet  though  his  sojourn  with  us  was  so  brief 
His  golden  fancies  ever  ours  remain. 

Henry  Marvin  Belden 


26 


L'ESTUDIANTINA 

I  LAUGH  ED  to-day  to  find  I've  kept  with  care 
This  card  of  dances, 

Midst  other  rubbish  —  souvenirs  de  guerre, 
Half-read  romances. 

Those  mark  such  flames  as  lightly  go  and  come  — 
Old  records  thermometric  — 

In  this  alone  there  seems  to  linger  some 
Residual  charge  electric. 

Six  years  ago  it  was,  we  chanced  to  meet  — 

A  german's  closing  scena. 

We  went  outside,  the  waltz  throbbed  low  and 
sweet, 

L  Estudiantina . 

She  chatted  of  the  partners  she  had  met 

In  the  dance's  mazes  ; 
I  was  content  to  watch  —  en  silhouette  — 

Her  face's  phases. 

So  fair  it  was  —  like  those  monks  used  to  paint 

In  missals  olden  — 

For  round  her  head  the  moon  had  made  —  fair 
saint !  — 

An  aureole  golden. 


27 


Derse 


And  in  her  lap  her  little  hand,  half  turned, 

Lay  white  and  slender, 

While  from  her  rings  the  strange  fires  flamed 
and  burned, 

Now  fierce,  now  tender. 

She    talked,  I    hearkened  —  how    she    loved    to 
sing  — 

Of  death  by  drowning  — 

Of      Heine  —  Haggard  — and     that     "dreadful 
thing  " 

By  Robert  Browning. 

Then  a  quick  sigh  —  her  evening  so  near  done, 

Her  roses,  ashes  — 
As  if  to  aught  than  joy  the  rising  sun 

Could  lift  her  lashes ! 

"You  know  I'm  just  through  school,"  she  shyly 
said. 

I  feigned  amazement, 
Though  truth,  not  guile,  long  since  in  all  I  read, 

Her  artless  ways  meant. 

Mamma  had  evidently  reared  her  child 

In  good  old  fashion. 
Her  frock  was  white  —  the  cut,  en  pension  styled 

With  wide-bowed  sash  on. 

"  Papa,  you  see,  won't  hear  of  my  debut 

Until  next  season." 
A  wistful  glance.     "  I  don't  see  what,  do  you, 

Can  be  his  reason?" 

28 


I'Bstu&fantina 


"Papa  is  poky."     Sigh.     "  This  evening  shows 

A  rare  good  nature." 
I  gravely  hinted  that  she  bring  her  woes 

Before  the  Legislature. 

Dear  child  —  that  grief  sped  soon  enough  away 

With  speeding  morrow. 
God  grant  there  came  not  with  the  later  day 

Some  deeper  sorrow. 

And  I  —  old  graybeard !    'Twas  for  this  fate  drew 

Me  from  the  million, 
Safe  man  to  guide  this  maiden  safely  through 

The  gay  cotillion  ! 

I  —  well  —  I'm  somewhat  grayer  —  play  my  part, 

A  gnarled  old  cynic. 
None  but  a  doctor  11  ever  touch  my- heart  — 

Post-mortem  clinic. 

But  sometimes,  "when  upon  my  couch  I  lie," 

Before  me  flashes 

A  gleaming,   slender  throat,  proud   head  held 
high, 

Long,  downcast  lashes. 

Then  as  my  heart  warms,  and   the  veil's  with- 
drawn, 

With  vision  youthful 
I  see  the  glistening  moonlight,  dewy  lawn, 

And  deep  eyes  truthful. 


29 


IDerse 


A  sleepy  song  breaks    from   some  half-waked 
thrush  — 

The  moon  had  seen  her !  — 

Then,  throbbing  faintly   through   the   fragrant 
hush, 

L' Estudiantina. 

She  —  to  some  worthier  man  the  binding  word 

Long  since  she's  spoken ; 
This  —  from  this  nameless  rubbish  disinterred, 

This, —  my  sole  token. 

Those  mark  such  flames  as  lightly  go  and  come  — 
Old  records  thermometric  — 

In  this  alone  there  seems  to  linger  some  * 
Residual  charge  electric. 

Clarence  Griffin  Child 


Bcboes 


TRINITY  ECHOES 

SING,  sing,  loud  let  us  sing. 
Our  cares  away  we  fling. 
For  friends  are  dear  and  hearts  are  free. 
Come  share  our  joy  with  song  and  glee. 
Oh !  let  the  echoes  ring 
At  Trinity  ! 

Sing,  sing,  sadly  sing. 

Some  songs  regret  will  bring. 
Our  hearts  it  rends  to  part  from  friends, 
And  time  will  never  make  amends. 

Some  songs  regret  will  bring 
At  Trinity  ! 

Sing,  sing,  gladly  sing. 

Still  let  the  echoes  ring. 

We'll  fear  no  storm  while  hearts  are  warm, 

No  shock  can  love  and  friendship  harm. 

Still  let  the  echoes  ring 

At  Trinity ! 

Melville  Knox  Bailey 


IDerse 


HER  SATIN  FAN 

RONDEAU 

HER  satin  fan  is  wondrous  white. 
Its  frame  with  smoothest  ivory  bright 
Is  twined  and  carved  in  subtle  plan 
To  snare  the  wayward  heart  of  man  — 
Oh,  tempt  thou  not  its  magic  might ! 

'Tis  wreathed  around  with  swansdown  light, 
And  on  its  shining  side  a  flight 

Of  painted  swallows  quaint  doth  span 
Her  satin  fan. 

Thou  foolish  one,  beware  the  sight, 
Or  rue  in  vain  thy  hapless  plight, 
A  slave  within  her  captives'  van, 
If  thou  her  loveliness  wilt  scan, 
When  seemeth  softly  to  invite 
Her  satin  fan. 

James  Goodwin 


"Robert  3Louis  Steveneon 


TO  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

THE  crest  gleams  bare,  and  storm-winds  roar, 
While  voices  rise  from  the  sounding  shore. 
Crooning  low  lullabies  ever  more  ; 

Where  his  kindly  heart  lies  sleeping. 

The  stars  he  loved  strict  vigils  keep, 
The  waves  still  wildly  upward  leap 
And  break  the  virgin-silence  deep  ; 

Where  his  kindly  heart  lies  sleeping. 

Henry  Rutgers  Remsen 


33 


Dersc 


A  DRUNKEN  DREAM 

"  It  is  so  comically  sweet,  the  world — so  delight- 
fully topsy-turvy:  the  dream  of  some  tipsy  god, 
fallen  asleep  after  an  Olympian  carousal.'11  — 
Heine. 

WHAT  if  it  were  a  dream,  a  drunken  dream 
Of  some  wine-bibbing  god — this  jum- 
bled thing 

We  call  the  world  ?    What  if  you,  I,  the  King, 

The  Pope,  Nanette,  Dame  Fashion's  last  extreme, 

This  pipe,  our  loves,  the  very  thoughts  we  deem 

Our  own,  were  but  the  whirling  shapes  that 

swing 

Through  the  thick  brain  of  some  god,  slum- 
bering 
On  soft,  smooth  sward,  by  cool  Olympic  stream  ? 

And  waking,  how  that  tipsy  scamp,  our  god, 
Would  stretch  his  lazy  legs  there  on  the  sod, 

Yawn,  rub  his  swollen  eyes,  and  even  grin 
To  think  of  his  droll  dream  ;  then  with  a  gay, 
Light  laugh  forget  it  all  and  go  his  way. 

And  we  would  vanish,  who  had  never  been. 


34 


FUTURITY 

ND  after  this  what  shall  I  be? 
A  member  of  society, 

Devoted  still  to  gaiety, 

To  swing  my  cane,  to  sip  my  tea, 
To  dote  on  rank  and  pedigree, 
Pass  nights  and  days  in  misery, 

Lest  certain  favored  ones  should  see 

Some  blemish  in  my  coat  or  me?  — 
The  program  doesn't  quite  agree 
With  one  who  isn't  worth  a  V. 

Or,  shall  I  grow,  by  fate's  decree, 

The  sober  man  of  family, 
From  desk  and  ledger  never  free, 
Forgetting  old-time  jollity ; 

My  one  delight,  my  only  glee, 

To  dance  the  children  on  my  knee, 
And  settle  down,  by  slow  degree, 
To  endless,  cheerless  drudgery  ? 

And  after  this  what  shall  I  do? 

The  law  is  quite  beyond  my  view  ; 
Theology  and  physic,  too, 
The  very  notion  makes  me  blue ! 

The  law  ?    Why,  that's  to  fret  and  stew 

O'er  mouldy,  musty  authors,  who 


35 


IDerse 


Prove  black  is  white,  or  any  hue 

The  purse  or  fancy  moves  you  to ; 
To  cheat  and  wrangle  like  a  Jew, — 
Swear  true  is  false  and  false  is  true  — 

Confound  old  Blackstone  and  his  crew ! 

A  parson  ?  There's  the  life  for  you  ! 
To  straighten  souls  all  bent  askew, 
To  patch  them  up  as  good  as  new, 

With  apostolic  thread  and  glue,  — 

More  kicks  than  ha'pence  when  you're  through. 
A  doctor's  calling  to  pursue  — 
A  three  years'  grind  the  avenue  — 

Means  that  a  fellow  must  eschew 

Half  of  life's  pleasures,  and  subdue 
His  finer  tastes  for  revenue. 
There's  no  escape !    I'll  have  to  woo 

Old  miser  Croesus'  daughter  Sue, 

And  bid  my  blue-eyed  Kate  adieu. 

Oh,  well !    I'll  let  the  matter  wait ; 

It's  dull  in  here  —  its  growing  late. 
There's  Will  out  there  with  Bess  and  Kate, 
Just  coming  through  the  garden  gate ; 

She  promised  me  a  tete-a-tete. 

To-day  is  mine  at  any  rate  : 
'Tis  June  —  111  leave  July  to  fate." 

Robert  Clarkson  Tongue 


1bcr  IFlame 


HER  NAME 

AT'S  not  my  name ! "    Each  morn  I  meet 

A  little  maiden  trim  and  neat. 
From  dainty  hood,  brown  curls  that  stray, 
Large  eyes,  and  cute  nose  relrousst, 
A  charming  maid,  demure,  petite. 

Her  name  I  know  not,  and  I  greet 
With  ancient  names  quite  obsolete, 
That  she  with  pretty  pout  may  say, 
"  Zat's  not  my  name ! " 

"Jemima,  Arabella  sweet, 
Dear  Sophonisba,  I  entreat 

Your  favor ;  —  Jane  Belinda,  pray 

Accept  the  greeting  of  the  day." 
Again  her  smiling  lips  repeat, 
"  Zat's  not  my  name  ! " 


37 


Iflerse 


ALMA   MATER 
AIL  far  away,  O  youth,  whose  years 


Have  led  thee  from  the  distant  home, 
Far  out  to  where  the  peaceful  bay 

Upheaves  its  breast  in  wild  sea-foam. 
Strong  in  thy  hope  and  courage,  sail,— 
Thou  wilt  have  need  for  more  than  these  ; 
For  storms  shall  roar 
E'er  thou  once  more 
Shalt  greet  thy  dear  ancestral  trees. 

"The  travel-toils  of  sea  and  land 

Shall  gird  thee  on  thy  perilous  way, 
And  years  shall  bring  forgetfulness 
Of  lessons  learned  in  earlier  day. 
Fare  on,  thou  journeyman  of  arts, 
In  realms  beyond  the  misty  sea  ; 
And  prove  thy  strength 
Till  Death  at  length 
Shall  bring  thee  home  and  set  thee  free." 

So  sang  our  Alma  Mater's  voice, 

In  words  like  these,  which  echo  still 
To  us  who  never  more  should  range 
The  pathways  of  her  foliaged  hill. 
Brighter  that  year  than  ever  seemed 
The  sunset  skies,  the  summer  moon, 
And  soft  the  breeze 
That  stirred  the  trees 
In  streets  made  beautiful  by  June. 

38 


Blma  /Bbatec 


Most  calm,  benignant,  looking  down, 

The  gray  walls  rose  in  sun  and  shade, 
Above  that  park  which  far  and  wide 

Its  ample  breast  in  pride  displayed. 
Beyond,  the  landscape  glowed  in  light, 
The  mountain-line  was  faintly  seen, 
And  fold  on  fold 
In  wealth  outrolled 
Fair  meadow-miles  of  shining  green. 

How  smooth  the  river  flowed  ;  how  pure 

The  white  clouds  loitered  through  the  blue. 
How  nobly  fair  the  town  beneath 

Its  hues  in  strength  and  beauty  drew. 
Beneath  the  campus  trees  we  lay 
And  softly  sang  old  college  tunes, 
'Till  the  gleaming  light 
Of  dusky  night 
Subdued  the  long,  hot  afternoons. 

Proudly  we  smiled  our  last  "  farewells," 

Gay  heroes  of  the  passing  hour. 
Why  not  ?  the  world  was  at  our  feet 

And  whispered,  "  Choose,  or  wealth  or  power ! " 
We  trimmed  our  sails  and  bore  away, 
Nor  would  confess  the  passing  sigh ; 
But  laughed  to  mark 
How  dim  and  dark 
Grew  shores  whence  rang  the  last  "  Good-bye." 


39 


Deree 


As  fisherboats,  at  set  of  sun, 

Spread  their  white  wings  and  move  away, 
And  hail  from  deck  to  deck,  and  leave 

In  one  great  fleet  the  ebbing  bay, 
But  yet,  e'er  windy  morning  breaks, 
Each  drifted  far  by  breeze  or  gale, 
Sweeps  all  in  vain 
The  sullen  main, 
With  wistful  glance  for  friendly  sail, — 

So  with  our  barques,  of  which  we  deemed 

Each  bore  a  Caesar  and  his  fate, 
Time  in  his  old  rough  way  has  dealt, 

Whate'er  their  Destined  port  or  freight, 
Certain  in  this  alone  of  all, 
That  whether  scattered  near  or  far, 
No  man  shall  meet 
That  gallant  fleet 
'Till  all  shall  cross  death's  harbor-bar. 

On  college  towers,  from  year  to  year, 

The  watchmen  sit  and  sweep  the  sea  ; 
"  Ho,  watchman,  ho !  "  our  mother  cries, 
"  What  sons  come  sailing  back  to  me; 
For  bring  they  all  the  gold  of  Ind, 
Or  wreathed  in  cypress  come  their  urns. 
At  each  dear  name, 
Undimmed  by  shame, 
The  mother's  heart  responsive  burns." 


40 


BIma  flfcater 


Ah !  tender  love  that  never  fades; 

Mother  of  scholars,  in  thy  breast, 
As,  weary  with  the  years,  we  come, 

Briefly  within  thy  arms  to  rest; 
We  need  to  feel  it  —  aye,  to  know, 
That  what  thou  hast  been,  still  thou  art; 
That  though  thy  brow 
Be  wreathed  with  snow, 
Thou  bearest  still  a  changeless  heart. 

Faintly  across  the  seas  we  sail 

Where'er  our  toil  thy  voices  reach; 
Thy  name  is  home,  —  our  thoughts  of  thee 

Are  speechless  or  in  trembling  speech. 
Long  as  thy  sacred  lamp  burns  clear, 
Long  as  our  feet  shall  seek  thy  shrine, 
Pure,  deep,  and  warm, 
Through  sun  and  storm, 
We  pledge  our  love  to  thee  and  thine. 

Alexander  Mackay-Smith 


\Dcv0c 


MARCH 

ALL  day  against  my  window,  blurred  and 
dim, 

The  rain  had  dripped  with  dreary  monotone, 
And  low'ring  mists  that  hurrying  rain  had  blown 
From  o'er  the  distant  mountain's  purple  rim 
Made  twilight  pale  within  the  leafless  woods. 
There,  in  those  bleak  and  dismal  solitudes, 
No  bud  made  bright  the  branches  dull  and  gray, 
No  bloom  shone  on  the  withered  vines  that  shed 
Their  broken  stems  along  the  winding  way. 
"  The  spring  will  come  no  more,"  I  said, 
"Unto  my  life,  made  sad  with  loss  and  pain." 
When  lo !  across  the  clouds  of  driving  rain 
The  sunlight  broke  with  splendor  sweet  and  mild, 
And  from  the  faded  turf  the  first  blue  violet 
smiled ! 

Frederick  William  Newshafer 


42 


<sm  a  Gbrfstmaa  3Boj  of  "Deiug  dags" 


ON  A  CHRISTMAS    BOX  OF  "  HENRY 
CLAYS " 

WHEN  the  dove  flew  back  to  the  water- 
logged ark  and  brought  in  her  beak  the 

bud, 
The  one  green  thing  that  proved  there  was  life 

'neath  the  waste  of  the  mundane  mud, 
Young  Japheth  jeered,  and  black  Ham  sneered, 

but  Shem  said  never  a  word, 
For  none  of-  the  three  had  the  least  idee  of  the 
worth  of  the  gift  of  the  bird. 

But  Noah  stripped  off  the  fresh,  green  leaves 

and  dried  them  on  the  stove, — 
Though  a  sailor  rough,  he  was  up  to  snuff,  this 

prudent  diluvian  cove  — 
Then  he  rolled  them  tight  and  got  a  light  from 

the  flames  of  the  binnacle  lamp  :  — 
"  Get  under  my  lee,  you  boys,"  said  he,  "a  cigar 

smokes  best  when  it's  damp. " 

"  I  don't  much  car',"  said  this  ancient  tar,  "how 

long  this  v'yage  is 
So  be  it  I  shan't  be  out  of  this  plant,  in  which 

lies  hope  and  bliss, 


43 


Derse 


Head  the  old  boat  so'th-east  by  so'th,  that  bird 

was  pinted  no'th, 
If  we  anchor  at  all,  we'll  make  a  land-fall  where 

tobacco's  a  nateral  growth. " 

Then  the  boys  agreed  that  the  fragrant  weed, 

which  the  bird  had  brought  from  the  shore, 
Was  the  very  best  thing  any  bird  could  bring,  to 

prove  it  would  rain  no  more ; 
For  peace  and  good-will  now  seemed  to  fill  their 

father's  rugged  breast ; 
"  Foh  suah,"  said  Ham,  "  tobacco  am  the  herb  of 

peace  and  rest." 

And  since  that  time,  in  every  clime,  the  smoke 
of  this  plant  has  been 

A  solace  sweet,  hard  times'  defeat,  for  all  life- 
faring  men ; 

But  never  less  ill  does  it  fill  the  bill  than  on  a 
Christmas  day, 

When  one's  Christmas  box  is  a  box  of  cigars  and 
the  brand  is  "  Henry  Clay." 


44 


2>ream 


A  DREAM 

THEN    vanished,    sighing,   all    the    singing 
throng 
Of  dream-dames  —  all  save  one,  whose  sweet 

lips  spell 
In  scarlet  letters,  Love,  her  name.     Glad  lays 

that  tell 

Of  Love's  delights,  she  sung,  and  yet,  ere  long, 
My  soul  grew  sick  and  weary  of  her  song, 
And  loathed  its  music.     Suddenly  a  knell 
Smote  harsh  upon  my  ear.     Some  beaten  bell 
Clanged  for  the  dead  —  or  marriage  chime  rung 
wrong ! 

And  in  Love's  place  there  stood  a  specter,  old 
And  lean,   with  lips  past  kissing.     Faugh  !    Of 

mold 
She  reeked.     It  blotched  her  shroud  a  rusty 

red! 

Her  head,  a  hooded  skull,  all  hollow-eyed, 
That    yet   looked   hate.      The    fleshless   jaws 

cracked  wide, 
And  cried :   "  Lo,  I  am  Love  when  Love  is 

dead." 


45 


IDecsc 


THE  COURT  JESTER 

I   LOVE  my  motley  and  my  jangling  cap, 
My  antic  staff  with  its  familiar  leer ; 
I  love  to  sit  with  my  wise  ape  and  sneer 
At  fools  who  call  me  Fool.    I  slyly  slap 
The  King  himself  with  some  neat  jest,  and  rap 
The  smirking  courtiers  who  adroitly  veer, 
Like  weather-vanes,   with  changing  winds. 

They  fear 
My  snapping  tongue,  as  lamed  rats  fear  the  trap. 

King !  I  am  king  —  and  King  and  Court  my  fools ; 
My  lute,  my  sport ;  my  shuttlecocks,  my  tools. 
Some  arch  rondeaus  to  my  pet  ape  I  sing, 
And  staid  dames  pale  beneath  their  paint,  ho!  ho! 
And  fops  look  fierce  as  hens.    Sweet  ape,  we 

know 

Wit    rules.      My    puppets  hop,   I  pull   the 
string. 


46 


Move's  Secret 


LOVE'S  SECRET 

WELL  I  know  she  is  not  handsome, 
She  can  neither  sing  nor  dance  ; 
But  I  strangely  am  attracted 
By  each  careless  nod  and  glance 
Of  my  Madeline. 

Quite  a  philanthropic  feeling 

Is  my  love,  so  true  and  rare, 
For  she's  burdened  with  great  riches  ; 

In  which  burden  I  would  share 
With  my  Madeline. 

From  such  heavy  care  to  shield  her 

Each  and  every  purpose  tends. 
I  will  help  to  clip  the  coupons, 
And  I'll  draw  the  dividends 
Of  my  Madeline. 

Robert  Peck  Bates 


47 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

YOU'D  admire  my  city  sweetheart 
(If  you  met  her) 

For  her  style. 

Yes  !  You'd  praise  her  beauteous  face, 
And  her  figure's  perfect  grace ! 
Ah  !  How  daintily  she  walks  — 
And  how  charmingly  she  talks! 

Yet  — 

I  think  you  could  forget  her  — 
Could  forget  that  artful  maiden 

In  a  while ! 

Though  you'd  praise  my  city  sweetheart 
And  her  style. 

But  you'd  love  my  country  sweetheart 
(If  you  met  her) 

For  her  smile, 

And  her  trusting  eyes  of  blue 
Would  have  far  more  charm  for  you 
Than  the  changing  laugh  and  frown 
Of  the  fair  coquette  in  town  — 

Ah! 

You  never  could  forget  her  — 
Ne'er  forget  that  artless  maiden 

And  her  smile ; 

For  you'd  love  my  country  sweetheart 
All  the  while ! 

William  French  Collins 
48 


B  Sprag  of 


A  SPRAY  OF  HOLLY 

SING  of  Christmas  long  ago, 
Garlanded  with  holly, 
Wreathed  about  with  mistletoe. 

But  the  hall  was  jolly, 
When  the  mighty  boar's  head  came, 

Of  a  lusty  savor, 
And  the  pudding  bathed  in  flame. 

How  they  praised  its  flavor! 
Merry  was  the  feast,  I  trow, 

Christmas  time  of  long  ago. 

Sing  of  Christmas  here  to-day, 

To  a  merry  measure. 
It  is  every  whit  as  gay 

And  as  full  of  pleasure. 
For  the  Christmas  board  is  bright, 

Christmas  cheer  aboundeth, 
And  about  the  hearth  to-night 

Still  the  carol  soundeth, 
Still  the  Christmas  tale  is  told 

Of  the  wonders  seen  of  old. 

Years  may  come  and  years  may  go, 

But  forever  blooming, 
And,  with  each  December's  snow, 

Fairer  hues  assuming, 


49 


Derac 


This  sweet  blossom  of  the  year 

Still  shall  tell  of  gladness, 
Kindly  love,  and  goodly  cheer, 

'Mid  the  winter's  sadness ; 
Still  shall  prove  its  token  true, 

"  Love  and  life  are  ever  new." 

Robert  Clarkson  Tongue 


LOVE  LAUGHS 

4  4  T     OVE  laughs  at  locksmith,"  laughs  ho!  ho! 

J ,    Still  Thisbe  steals  to  meet  a  beau, 

Naught  recks  of  bolt  and  bar  and  night, 
And  father's  frown  and  word  despite. 
As  in  the  days  of  long  ago, 
In  southern  heat  and  northern  snow 
Still  twangs  the  archer's  potent  bow, 
And  as  his  flying  arrows  smite, 
Love  laughs. 


(Slucstfon 


QUESTION 

T  T  /HY  is  the  king  so  sad,  Father,  why  is  the 

V  V  king  s°  sa(i  -? 

More  than  his  sire  the  king  is  blessed, 
The  times  are  fair  and  the  land  at  rest ; 
With  the  little  prince  011  the  queen's  fair  breast, 

Why  is  the  king  so  sad? 
He  put  the  woman  he  loved  aside, 
He  steeled  his  heart  when  his  true  love  cried. 
And  took  a  princess  for  his  bride  ; 
And  so  the  king  is  sad. 

Why  is  the  rich  man  sad,  Father,  why  is  the  rich 

man  sad  ? 

Fair  on  the  hills  his  turrets  glow, 
Broad  is  the  manor  spread  below, 
Garners  and  wine-vats  overflow ; 

Now,  why  is  he  so  sad  ? 
His  truth  for  a  lordly  price  he  sold, 
He  gave  his  honor  for  yellow  gold ; 
It's,  oh !  for  the  peace  he  knew  of  old ! 
And  therefore  he  is  sad. 

Why  is  the  poor  man  sad,  Father,  why  is  the 

poor  man  sad  ? 

Health  and  freedom  and  love  has  he, 
A  vine-clad  cottage  beyond  the  lea 
Where  children  clamber  about  his  knee  ; 
Yet  why  is  he  so  sad  ? 

51 


IPerse 


He  thought  of  the  rich  man's  wealth  and  fame, 
He  looked  on  his  humble  lot  with  shame  ; 
Into  his  life  black  envy  came, 

And  therefore  he  is  sad. 

Why  is  the  priest  so  sad,  Father,  why  is  the 

priest  so  sad  ? 

Little  he  knows  of  worldly  care, 
His  place  is  found  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
And  honor  and  peace  attend  him  there  ; 

Why  is  the  priest  so  sad  ? 

He  marks  how  the  proud  ones  spoil  the  meek ; 
His  heart  is  hot,  but  his  spirit  weak, 
And  the  words  that  he  would  he  dare  not  speak, 
And  so  the  priest  is  sad. 

Why  is  the  world  so   sad,  Father,  why  is  the 

world  so  sad  ? 
Every  day  is  a  glory  sent, 
Sunshine,  beauty,  and  music  blent, 
Fresh  from  the  gracious  firmament ; 
Then  why  is  the  world  so  sad? 
Alas  for  the  evil  ever  done ! 
Alas  for  the  good  deed  not  begun  ! 
Alas  for  our  blindness  every  one ! 
By  this  the  world  is  sad. 

Robert  Clarkson  Tongue 


pbfllfps 


PHILLIPS  BROOKS 

FOLD  his  arms  gently  over  his  breast 
Like  a  child  asleep  at  set  of  the  sun. 
It  is  hard,  O  Christ,  to  leave  him  thus. 
Were  it  better  so  ?    Thy  will  be  done. 

There's  a  voice  the  less  to  soothe  and  warn 

The  voyagers  on  life's  sea  afar  ; 
There's  a  hand  the  less  outstretched  to  help 

The  weary  wanderer  cross  the  bar. 

There's  a  soul  the  more  with  God,  we  trust, 

A  saint  at  rest  in  the  peace  of  the  Son. 
Life's  cross  laid  down  for  the  crown  of  God, 
And  a  still,  small  voice  :  "  Well  done !    Well 
done ! " 

George  William  Ellis 


53 


IDerec 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT 

THE  pines  rise  black  against  the  moon  ; 
A  golden  wake  the  water  glows 
And  shimmers  ;  all  the  night's  a-ttine 
With  thrushes ;  and  a  soft  air  blows, 
Full-freighted  with  dim  odors,  borne 
From  unimagined  lands  of  morn. 

Harsh  noon-tide  thoughts  slink  to.their  lair ; 

This  is  an  hour  for  dreams  to  be 
Abroad,  for  visions  and  fancies  fair, 

And  love's  impassioned  litany  — 
An  hour  to  quit  all  jangling  strife 
And  woo  the  lyric  side  of  life. 

Richard  Burton 


54 


Gbe  /JBofcern  "Romans 


THE  MODERN  ROMANS 

UNDER  the  slanting  light  of  the  yellow  sun 
of  October, 

A  "gang  of  Dagos"  were  working  close  by  the 
side  of  the  car-track. 

Pausing  a  moment  to  catch  a  note  of  their  liquid 
Italian, 

Faintly  I  heard  an    echo   of    Rome's  imperial 
accents, 

Broken-down  forms  of    Latin  words  from  the 
Senate  and  Forum, 

Now  smoothed  over  by  use  to  the  musical  lingua 
Romana. 

Then  came  the  thought,  Why,  these  are  the  heirs 
of  the  conquering  Romans  ; 

These  are  the  sons  of  the  men  who  founded  the 
Empire  of  Caesar. 

These  are  they  whose  fathers  carried  the  con- 
quering eagles 

Over  all  Gaul  and  across  the  sea  to  Ultima  Thule. 

The  race-type  persists  unchanged  in  their  eyes, 
and  profiles,  and  figures. 

Muscular,  short,  and  thick-set,  with  prominent 
noses,  recalling 

" Romanos  rerum  dominos,gentemque  togafam." 

See,  Labienus  is  swinging  a  pick  with   rhyth- 
mical motion  ; 

'55 


Derse 


Yonder  one  pushing  the  shovel  might  be  Julius 

Caesar, 
Lean,  deep-eyed,  broad-browed,  and  bald,  a  man 

of  a  thousand  ; 

Further  along  stands  the  jolly  Horatius  Flaccus; 
Grim  and  grave,  with  rings  in  his  ears,  see  Cato 

the  Censor ; 
And  the  next  has  precisely  the  bust  of  Cneius 

Pompeius. 
Blurred  and  worn  the  surface,  I  grant,  and  the 

coin  is  but  copper  ; 
Look  more  closely,  you'll  catch  a  hint  of  the  old 

superscription, 
Perhaps  the  stem  of  a  letter,  perhaps  a  leaf  of 

the  laurel. 
On  the  side  of  the  street,  in  proud  and  gloomy 

seclusion, 
"  Bossing  the  job,"  stood  a  Celt,  the  race  enslaved 

by  the  legions, 

Sold  in    the  market  of  Rome,  to  meet  the  ex- 
penses of  Caesar. 
And  as  I  loitered,  the  Celt  cried  out  "Worruk, 

ye  Dagos, 
Full  up  your  shovel,  Paythro',  ye  haythen,  I'll 

dock  yees  a  quarther." 
This  he  said  to  the  one  who  resembled  the  great 

imperator. 
Meekly  the  dignified  Roman  kept  on  patiently 

digging. 


Gbe  dBofcern  IRomans 


Such  are  the  changes  and  chances,  the  centuries 
bring*  to  the  nations. 

Surely  the  ups  and  downs  of  this  world  are  past 
calculation. 

How  the  races  troop  o'er  the  stage  in  endless 
procession ! 

Persian  and  Arab  and  Greek,  and  Hun  and  Ro- 
man and  Saxon 

Master  the  world  in  turn  and  then  disappear  in, 
the  darkness, 

Leaving  a  remnant  as  hewers  of  wood  and  draw- 
ers of  water. 

"Possibly,"  this  I  thought  to  myself,  "the  yoke 
of  the  Irish 

May  in  turn  be  lifted  from  us  in  the  tenth  gen- 
eration. 

Now  the  Celt  is  on  top,  but  time  may  bring  his 
revenges, 

Turning  the  Fenian    down    once  more    to    be 
'bossed  by  a  Dago.'  " 

'  Charles  Frederick  Johnson 


57 


Werse 


REX  SUM 

I  AM  a  King.    Within  my  hollow  hands 
I  hold  the  mystic  powers,  life  and  death. 
I  can  disperse  the  body's  glowing  sands, 
Or  husband  them  for  years,  through  my  com- 
mand. 

I  am  a  King.     And  at  my  will's  behest, 
Aye  !  at  the  slightest  murmur  of  my  breath, 
I  bid  wild  passions  rise  and  rule  the  breast. 
I  speak  —  I  nod,  again  they  sink  to  rest. 

I  am  a  King.     My  country  is  the  land 
That  lies  between  the  bounds  of  birth  and  death  — 
Myself  the  lord,  to  rule  with  iron  hand, 
Myself  the  serf  to  cringe  at  each  demand. 

Henry  Rutgers  Remsen 


JSl&bt 


BLIGHT 

YES,  there  were  golden  days — 
Times  when  the  pur.ple  haze 
And  the  rose-touched  wings  of  ships, 
As  soft  as  the  sweet-briar's  lips, 
Had  meanings  plain  to  me 
On  land  and  sea. 

When  the  sun  drew  up  a  breath 
That  had  no  hint  of  death, 
From  the  ranks  of  the  fallen  grass, 
Or  the  wide,  rush-floored  morass  ; 
And  the  great  trees  shouted  loud, 
The  giant-boughed  ; 

And  Sirius  blazed  in  the  night 
With  a  strange,  mysterious  might ; 
And  the  autumn  twilight  chill, 
On  the  ridge  of  the  western  hill, 
Made  cities  of  somber  flame 
That  had  no  name. 

These  sang  in  my  soul,  and  said  — 
Ah  !    I  know  not  what ;  it  is  fled — 
But  they  told  of  the  secrets  of  life, 
And  the  prizes  set  for  the  strife, 
And  they  showed  me  a  writing  clear, 
Of  wonder  and  fear. 

59 


IDerse 


But  the  writing  is  faded  quite, 
And  the  voices  are  still  in  the  night ; 
The  sun  goes  down  in  the  sky, 
And  the  ships  go  sailing  by, 
But  there  comes  no  voice  to  me 
By  land  or  sea. 

I  am  yourrg  —  it  is  not  years  — 
And  I  prosper.     I  have  no  fears 
For  to-morrow's  meat  and  drink  ; 
But  my  thoughts  within  me  shrink, 
And  vanish  away  to  naught 
Ere  they  are  thought. 

O  Age,  is  the  fault  with  thee, 
Or  is  it  rather  with  me, 
That  a  poison  has  entered  in 
Till  my  thoughts  are  as  water  thin, 
As  brackish  water  to  taste, 
Spewed  out  in  haste  ? 

O  strong  wind  !  speak  to  me  now, 
Blow,  battle  against  my  brow, 
Till  my  soul  shall  wake  again, 
And  I,  like  my  fellow-men, 
Shall  once  more  be  in  tune 
With  thy  dread  rune. 

Henry  Marvin  Belden 


60 


IRonfceau 


RONDEAU 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF   VOITURE 

"Mafoi,  c'estfait  de  mot,  car  Isabeau" 

BY  Jove,  I'm  done  for  now,  for  Isabeau 
Has  conjured  me  to  write  her  a  rondeau. 
This  renders  my  embarrassment  extreme. 
What !  thirteen  lines  to  rhyme  with  eau  or  erne  \ 
'Twere  easier  to  build  a  boat,  I  know. 

And  now  but  five  are  done  —  a  modest  show. 
The  writing  of  a  rondeau  must  be  slow. 
Now  seven  —  now  eight  —  add  to  complete  the 
scheme  ; 

By  Jove,  I'm  done  ! 

Again  five  verses  must  be  writ  in  row, 
Each  verse  in  rhyme  and  metre  so-and-so. 
Eleven  are  done,  and  now  I  really  seem 
Near  finished.    Adding  one  more  rhyme,, —  say 

deem, 

To  close,  I  simply  have  to  write  below  : 
By  Jove,  I'm  done  ! 

Charles  Edward  Taylor 


61 


IDerse 


FROM  THE  PERSIAN  OF  HAFIZ 

ON  a  summer's  day  slept  a  Dervish  gray 
'Neath  the  shade  of  a  palm  tree  tall ; 
A  thief,  who  passed  by,  snatched  his  turban 

and  ran ; 
"Stop!  Stop!"  cried  the  Dervish,  away  went 

the  man, 
Away  went  the  turban  and  all. 

To  a  graveyard  nigh  did  the  Dervish  hie, 
And  seated  himself  on  a  stone. 

Quoth  a  peasant,   "Grave  sir,  with  all  rever- 
ence to  you, 
You'd  soon  catch  the  fellow,  if  straight  you'd 

pursue  ; 
Nor  sit  in  the  graveyard  alone." 

But  the  gray-beard  said,  as  he  shook  his  head, 

"  I  am  old,  and  the  fellow  ran  fast ; 
Yet  a  faster  pursues  him,  where'er  he  may  run, 
There's  one  end  for  all  who  live  under  the  sun ; 

He'll  come  to  the  graveyard  at  last." 


62 


Gbeir 


THEIR  KING 

4  4  T   T  O  !  all  ye  men  that  sorrow  much,  give 

place ! 
Give  place  !   Lo  !    I  have  drunken  tears  like 

wine. 

Your  sorrows  are  but  motes  of  dust  to  mine, 
Ye  puny  weepers !    Come,  make  room !    Have 

grace 

To  know  your  betters.    Hail  me  king  !     My  face 
Is  waxen  lean  with  weeping,  blanched  with 

brine 

Of  bitter  tears.     My  trailing  robes,  the  sign    * 
Of  woe  as  black  —  yield  up  to  me  grief's  mace." 

Then  from  the  mourners,  one,  robed  all  in  red, 
Uprose.    He  wore,  askew  upon  his  head, 

A  jester's  cap  sewn  o'er  with  bells — no  thing 
Nor  sign  of  woe  he  wore.     Dry  eyed,  he  said : 
"I  cannot  weep !" —  Cried  out  all  those  who  fed 

On  grief,  "Peace,  babbling  fool,  this  man  is 
King!" 


63 


Deree 


THE  PAST 

THE  darkening  shadows  gather  one  by  one, 
Yet  far  above,  when  other  light   seems 

gone, 

Bright  in  the  beauty  of  the  setting  sun, 
A  cloud  floats  on. 

So,  when  our  hopes  and  joys  fade  into  fears, 
And  doubt  and  darkness  veil   life's  fleeting 

rays, 

There  lingers  still  the  dream  of  happier  years  — 
Of  by-gone  days. 

William  French  Collins 


AN  OLD  EPITAPH 

NAY,  stroller,  pass  !  No  lines  appear 
To  bless  or  curse  him  lying  here. 
Pass  on  !    His  character  is  known 
To  the  eternal  God  alone  ; 
Only  the  judgment- day  will  show 
What  was  the  man  who  sleeps  below. 


Song  ot  tbe 


SONG  OF  THE  FLAG 

HERE  in  the  brave  young  land  of  lands, 
That  stretches  so  broad  and  free, 
From  the  frozen  capes  to  the  tropic  sands, 

From  the  near  to  the  further  sea, 
We  hail  one  flag,  one  bit  of  rag, 

That  blazons  our  loyal  love, 
And  the  old  feel  young  when  its  folds  are  flung 
To  the  airs  of  heaven  above. 

Flag  of  the  deeds  well  done, 
Symbol  of  all  in  one, 
Beautiful  under  the  sun. 

O,  ye  of  the  scholar  class  and  clan, 

Now  pacing  the  paths  of  Thought, 
Ye  are  called  by  the  name  American, 

By  the  blood  of  your  fathers  bought, 
It  is  meet  ye  raise,  in  these  summer  days, 

The  red,  the  white,  and  the  blue  ; 
That  the  flag  look  down  on  the  cap  and  gown, 
On  all  that  ye  dream  and  do. 
Learning  and  liberty, 
Bulwarks  for  me  and  thee, 
So  long  as  the  years  shall  be. 


Whatever  our  craft  or  creed  or  coat, 

We  are  fellow- workers  all, 
If  only  the  stars  and  stripes  shall  float 

O'er  each  native  festival, 
Be  it  trade  or  art,  be  it  mind  or  earth 

That  gets  us  our  stint  of  bread, 
The  fruits  are  thine,  O  country  mine, 
Till  our  human  hearts  be  dead. 

One  flag  and  one  only  foe ; 
The  hand  that  drags  it  low, 
And  shames  our  country  so. 

The  world  grows  boy  in  the  blush  of  June, 

The  soul  leaps  up  in  its  seat ; 
There  is  blessing  rich  in  the  double  boon, 

Of  a  day  and  a  duty  sweet, 
May  this  ardent  hour  unfold  a  flower 

Of  triple  love  in  us  : 

For  our  student  days ;  for  our  country's  praise; 
And  for  God  the  glorious. 

So  College,  take  our  lay, 
Hail,  fatherland,  to-day : 
And  God  be  with  us  aye. 

Richard  Burton 


66 


Btlantfs 


ATLANTIS 

Verses  from  the  Class-Day  Poem  of  Eighteen 
Hundred  and  Seventy 

I   SLEPT  and  dreamed ;  and  while  I  dreamed 
there  came 

A  lofty  figure  that  beside  me  stood, 
And  gazed  upon  me  ;  all  my  pulsing  blood 
Flashed  hotly  up  at  sight  of  her,  like  flame. 

Strong  brows  drawn  straight  above  deep  eyes  ; 
a  storm 

Of  long,  thick  tresses  falling  to  her  knees  ; 

A  face  lit  up  with  mighty  purposes  — 
The  crowning  beauty  of  her  perfect  form. 


Her  stirring  words  like  some  far  trumpet  rang 
Through    all    the    vacant    chambers    of    my 

brain  ; 
Then  spread  she  her  bright  wings,  and  'cross 

the  rain 
Of  slanted  sunlight  flew,  and  flying  sang : 

"  In  paths  of  grandest  harmony 

The  chanting  months  march  'round, 
And  roll  through  echoing  centuries 
A  choral  hymn  profound. 

67 


Derse 


'  A  matchless  song  of  matchless  deeds 

And  men  of  high  renown  — 
Of  splintered  lances,  shivered  casques, 

And  valiant  lives  laid  down. 

'  A  strain  that  rings  with  battle  cries, 

Or  sobs  with  women's  tears, 
That  soars  with  flame-sped  saints  to  God, 

Or  thrills  with  lovers'  fears, 

'  A  lordly  lay  of  kingly  times, 

And  many  a  splendid  name, 
Of  poet,  sage,  philosopher  — 

A  hymn  that  ye  call  fame. 

To  carve  upon  the  cliffs  of  thought 

The  record  of  thy  pen  ; 
To  dwell  among  the  fadeless  ones 

For  all  the  years  of  men  ; 

To  sit,  a  monarch,  high  enthroned 

Above  the  worldly  din  — 
This  the  great  guerdon,  —  this  the  prize 

To  strive  for  and  to  win. 

Oh,  fame  is  not  a  paltry  toy, 

A  bubble,  or  a  breath  ; 
Thus  man  defies  mortality 

And  proudly  spurns  at  death. 

Pervading  all  his  wayward  speech, 

One  godlike  tone  doth  run ; 
And  human  tongues  may,  speaking  right, 

Pronounce  the  Lord's  '  Well  done  ! '  ' 
68 


Btlantis 


Deep  in  the  beauty  of  the  morning  skies, 
Hevr  sweet  song  spent  itself  ;  but  I  awoke, 
And  knew  the  vision  for  a  dream,  and  spoke 

Thus  to  myself  in  somewhat  bitter  wise  : 

4 '  Nay,  rather  is  that  ancient  legend  true, 
Of  fair  Atlantis  in  the  midmost  sea 
Firm  founded,  rich  with  blissful  greenery  — 
Right  goodly,  bright,  and  beautiful  to  view. 

"A  lovely  land,  where  tinkling  streams  did  pass 
Slow  dropping  to  the  shore,  through  twilight 

vales, 

Made  musical  at  eve  by  nightingales 
That  scarcely  paused  at  noon,  so  dim  it  was. 

"  There,  underneath  the  shadows  of  old  trees, 
From  branch    to  branch   great    vines    had 

twined  themselves ; 
Broad  woodland  reaches,  haunts  of  fays  and 

elves, 
Were,  not  infrequent,  murmurous  with  bees. 

"No  jagged  mountains,  rough  and  cold  with 

snow, 

Did  pierce  the  blue  sky  bending  over  all, 
But  smooth  hills  billowed  up,  again  to  fall 
In  little  valleys  lying  just  below. 

"  And  no  rude  storm  within  that  isle  could  rise, 
The  yellow  sand  ran  down  to  meet  the  wave 
That  far  away,  on  other  shores,  might  rave, 
But  here  sang  ever  slumberous  lullabies. 

69 


Dcrse 


"And  never  yet  had  mortal  man  with  joy 
Set  foot,  the  poets  fabled,  on  that  shore, 
But  if  one  could,  then  unto  him  no  more 
His  life  would  seem  than  some  poor,  trifling 
toy. 

"Oh,  blessed  ending  of  the  weary  strife, 
Thus  to  lose  recollection  of  the  world, 
And  in  an  atmosphere  of  dreams  lie  furled, 
Apart  from  all  that  vexed  thy  troubled  life  ! 

"  But  yet,  or  that  the  earth  had  grown  too  vile 
For  such  a  paradise  ;  or,  some  have  said, 
Because  the  old  Greek  gods  were  conquered, 
And  in  their  flight   destroyed  the  beauteous 
isle, 

"  Atlantis  disappeared  beneath  the  surge  ; 
And  gloomily  the  great,  gray  ocean  drave 
Athwart    that    sunken   country's    mournful 

grave, 

And   wheeling   sea-birds    clanged   its    doleful 
dirge. 

"  But  he  who  with  clear  eyes  and  spotless  soul  — 
If  such  there  were  among  the  sons  of  men  — 
Gazed  west  at  time  of  sunset  —  then,  oh, 

then 
He  saw  the  hills  of  that  dear  island  roll 

"  Themselves  above  the  waste  of  waters  wide  — 
Hills  white  and  thin,  a  ghostly  company, 
And  some  there  were  who,  seeing,  did  agree 
To  sail  in  search  thereof  until  they  died. 

70 


Bttantis 


"And  sailed  and  ne'er  returned.    But  what  be- 
fell 
Those  seamen  —  whether,  guided  by  some 

god, 
They  reached  that  strand  by  ways  before 

untrod, 
Or  perish  dismally  —  I  cannot  tell. 

"  But  this  I  know  :  that  for  each  one,  there  lies 
Some  bright  Atlantis  in  the  misty  sea 
Of  grand,  successful  days  that  are  to  be 
His  heavy  labor's  long  desir&d  prize." 

Arthur  Dyer 


IDerse 


LOVE'S  VISION. 

often  said  that  love  is  blind, 
But  I  could  never  think  it  true. 
Now  tell  me,  sweet,  if  love  is  blind, 
Why  do  I  love  to  look  at  you  ? 

If  love  is  blind,  why  can  one  glance 
At  thy  fair  face,  my  being  move  ? 

If  love  were  blind,  would  not  thy  charms 
To  every  sight  impotent  prove  ? 

If  love  were  blind,  I'd  love  thee  still ; 

I'd  love  thy  spirit,  gentle  maid. 
But  love's  not  blind — for  I  love  both 

Thy  face  and  spirit  — Adelaide. 

Walter  Wood  Parsons 


72 


S'Bmuse 


LA  MUSE  S'AMUSE 

T  A  muse  s1  amuse.     In  olden  lays 
-^— *    The  minstrels  sang  sweet  songs  of  praise 
For  bravery  on  land  and  sea, 
For  knighthood  and  for  chivalry. 
Alas  !  we  have  outgrown  their  ways. 
The  world  of  song  new  laws  obeys  ; 
We  weave  with  nicely  turned  phrase 
Our  little  rhymes  on  grief  and  glee, 
La  muse  s  amuse. 

Ah,  for  some  singer  who  could  raise 
A  nobler  strain  —  not  one  who  plays 
At  making  verses  skillfully  — 
We  long  for  some  true  poetry, 
Some  deeper  thought  :  but  now-a-days 
La  muse  s'amuse. 

William  French  Collins 


73 


Derse 


LANDLORD  AND  TENANT 

THE  Winter  is  a  landlord  grim  ; 
The  Summer  takes  a  lease  from  him 
And  makes  a  home  midst  birds  and  flowers, 
A  happy  home  for  fleeting  hours. 

But  all  too  brief  such  tenantry  ! 
By  withered  grass  and  leafless  tree, 
By  winds  that  at  the  windows  moan, 
The  landlord  comes  to  claim  his  own. 

Richard  Burton 


74 


{postgraduate 


POSTGRADUATE 

THE  dark  old  Bishop  standing  there 
Still  spreads  his  brazen  arms  in  prayer 
Old  Northam  rears  against  the  sky 
Its  massy  bulwark,  gray  and  high, 
Unheeding  how  the  life  below 
May  change  or  chance,  may  ebb  or  flow ; 
And  bits  of  song  and  pleasant  talk 
Still  sound  along  the  college  walk  — 
Old  jests  I  knew,  old  songs  I  sung, 
When  hope  was  high,  and  life  was  young. 

All  is  the  same,  yet  not  the  same, 
As  on  the  morning  when  I  came, 
A  Freshman,  to  these  classic  halls. 
The  life  I  passed  within  those  walls 
Has  grown  so  dim  that  now  it  seems 
A  gauzy  fabric  spun  in  dreams. 
Ah  well !  I  am  not  all  bereft, 
For  yet  one  faithful  friend  is  left 
Unchanged  by  age,  unmoved  by  care, 
The  dark  old  Bishop  standing  there. 

Robert  Clarkson  Tongue 


75 


Dcrsc 


RETRIBUTION 

"  There  were  two  men  in  one  city ;  the  one  rich 
and  the  other  poor" 

THERE  were  two  men  —  the  first  had  but  to 
nod, 

And,  lo  !  slaves  trembled  at  his  very  feet. 
Raiment  of  gold  was  his— yea,  ointment  sweet 
His  countenance  made   fair ;    the   wine,    slave- 
trod, 

Rejoiced  his  heart.    The  other  felt  the  rod, 
The  bitter  scourge  ;  ate  what  the  dog  did  eat ; 
Was  spurned,  rejected,  cast  into  the  street, 
Despised  of  men  to  seek  redress  of  God. 

And  vengeance  comes !    Already  on  the  strand 
The  hoarse  waves  break   and  mutter  things 

to  be, 
And  yet,  forsooth,  we  fear  not,  "In  this  land, 

All  men  are  equal!  "    Bitter  mockery  ! 
Blind  souls  who  build  upon  the  shifting  sand, 
Nor  heed  the  moaning  of  the  troubled  sea  ! 
William  French  Collins 


76 


(5ame 


THE  GRECO-TROJAN  GAME 

FIRST  on  the  ground  appeared  the  god-like 
Trojan  Eleven, 

Shining  in  purple  and  black,  with  tight  and  well- 
fitting  sweaters, 

Woven  by  Andromache  in  the  well-ordered  pal- 
ace of  Priam. 

After  them  came,  in  goodly  array,  the  players  of 
Hellas, 

Skilled  in  kicking  and  blocking  arid  tackling  and 
fooling  the  umpire. 

All  advanced  on  the  field  marked  off  with  white 
alabaster, 

Level  and  square  and  true — at  the  ends  two 
goal  posts  erected, 

Richly  adorned  with  silver  and  gold  and  carved 
at  the  corners, 

Bearing  a  legend  which  read,  "Don't  talk  back 
at  the  umpire  "- 

Rule,  first  given  by  Zeus,  for  the  guidance  of 
voluble  mortals. 

All  the  rules  of  the  game  were  deeply  cut  in  the 
crossbars, 

So  that  the  players  might  know  exactly  how  to 
evade  them. 


77 


Grfnitg  \Derse 


On  one  side  of  the  field  were  ranged  the  Trojan 
spectators, 

Yelling  in  composite  language  their  ancient 
Phrygian  war-cry : 

"Hohaytoe,  Toutaistou,  Tontainto ;  Boomerah, 
Boomerah,  Trojans ! " 

And  on  the  other,  the  Greeks,  fair-haired  and 
ready  to  halloo, 

If  occasion  should  offer  and  Zeus  should  grant 
them  a  touch-down, 

"Breck-ek  kek-kex-koax-Anax  andron,  Agam- 
emnon ! " 

First  they  agreed  on  an  umpire,  the  silver- 
tongued  Nestor. 

Long  years  ago  he  played  end-rush  on  the 
Argive  eleven  ; 

He  was  admitted  by  all  to  be  an  excellent 
umpire 

Save  for  the  habit  he  had  of  making  public  ad- 
dresses, 

Tedious,  long-winded  and  dull,  and  full  of  mi- 
nute explanations, 

How  they  used  to  play  in  the  days  when  Cad- 
mus was  half-back, 

Or  how  Hermes  could  dodge,  and  Ares  and 
Phoebus  could  tackle  ; 

Couched  in  rhythmical  language  but  not  one 
whit  to  the  purpose. 

On  his  white  hairs  the'y  carefully  placed  the 
sacred  tiara, 


(5reco^rojan  Game 


Worn  by  the  foot-ball  umpires  of  old  as  a  badge 

of  their  office, 
Also  to  save   their  heads,  in  case  the  players 

should  slug  them. 

Then  they  gave  him  a  spear  wherewith  to  en- 
force his  decisions, 
And  to  stick  in  the  ground  to  mark. the  place  to 

line  up  to. 
He  advanced  to  the  thirty-yard  line  and  began 

an  oration : 
"Listen,  Trojans  and   Greeks!    For   thirty-five 

seasons, 
"I   played  foot-ball  in   Greece  with   Peleus  for 

half-back  and  captain. 
"  Those  were  the  days  of  old  when  men  played 

the  game  as  they'd  orter. 
"  Once,  I  remember,  ^Eacus,  the  god-like  son  of 

Poseidon, 
'  Kicked  the  ball  from  a  drop,  clean  over  the  city 

of  Argos. 
"That  was  the  game  when  Peleus,  our  captain 

lost  all  his  front  teeth  ; 
"Little  we  cared  for  teeth  or  eyes  when  once  we 

were  warmed  up. 
"  Why,  I  remember  that  ^Eacus  ran  so  that  no 

one  could  see  him, 
"There  was  just  a  long  hole  in  the  air  and  a  man 

at  the  end  on't. 
"Hercules  umpired   that   game,  and   I   noticed 

there  wasn't  much  talking—  "  ' 


79 


\Der0e 


Him   interrupting,  sternly  addressed  the   King- 
Agamemnon  : 
"  Cease   old  man  ;   come   off  your  antediluvian 

boasting ; 
"Doubtless  our  grandpas  could  all  play  the  game 

as  well  as  they  knew  how. 
"They  are  all  dead,  and  have  long  lined  up  in 

the  fields  of  Elysium  ; 
"  If   they   were    here    we    would    wipe    up    the 

ground  with  the  rusty  old  duffers. 
"  You  call  the  game,  and  keep  your  eye  fixed  on 

the  helmeted  Hector. 
"  He'll  play  off-side  all  the  while,  if  he  thinks  the 

umpire  don't  see  him." 
Then  the  old  man  threw  the  lots,  but  sore  was 

his  heart  in  his  bosom. 
"Troy  has  the   kick-off,"  he   said,  "the  ball  is 

yours,  noble  Hector." 
Then  he  gave  him  the  ball,  a  prolate  spheroid  of 

leather, 
Much  like  the  world  in  its  shape,  if  the  world 

were  lengthened,  not  flattened, 
Covered    with    well-sewed    leather  —  the    well- 
seasoned  hide  of  a  bison, 
Killed  by  Lakon,  the  hunter,   'ere  bisons  were 

exterminated. 
On  it  was  painted  a  battle,  a  market,  a  piece  of 

the  ocean, 
Horses  and   cows  and  nymphs  and  things  too 

many  to  mention. 


80 


<5reco*Grojan  <3ame 


Ajax  stood  on  the  right;  in  the  center  the  great 

Agamemnon ; 
Diomed  crouched  on  the  left,  the  god-like  rusher 

and  tackier  — 
Crouched  as  a  panther  crouches,  if  sculptors  do 

justice  to  panthers. 
Crafty   Ulysses  played  back,   for  none   of    the 

Trojans  could  pass  him. 
All  the  best  Greeks  were  in  line,  but  Podus  Okus 

Achilleus, 
Who  though  an  excellent  kicker  stayed  all  day 

in  his  section. 

Hector  dribbled  the  ball,  then  seized  it  and  put- 
ting his  head  down, 
And,  as  a  lion  carries  a  lamb  and  jumps  over 

fences  — 
Dodging  this  way  and  that  way  the  shepherds 

who  wish  to  remonstrate  — 
So  did  the  son  of  Priam  carry  the  ball  through 

the  rush  line, 
Till  he  was  tackled  fair  by  the  full-back,  the 

crafty  Ulysses. 
Even  then  he  carried  the  ball  and  the  son  of 

Laertes 
Full  five  yards  till  they  fell  to  the  ground  with  a 

deep  indentation 
Where  one  might  hide  three  men  so  that  no  man 

could  see  them  — 


81 


IDerse 


Men  of  the  present  day,  degenerate  sons  of  the 
heroes — 


Now,  when  Pallas  Athene  discovered  the  Greeks 
would  be  beaten, 

She  slid  down  from  the  steep  of  Olympus  upon 
a  toboggan. 

Sudden  she  came  before  crafty  Ulysses  in  guise 
like  a  maiden, 

Not  that  she  thought  to  fool  him,  but  since 
Olympian  fashion 

Made  the  form  of  a  woman  good  form  for  a  god- 
dess' assumption. 

She  then  spoke  to  him  quickly,  and  said,  "  O  son 
of  Laertes, 

Seize  thou  the  ball ;  I  will  pass  it  to  thee  and  trip 
up  the  Trojan." 

Her  replying,  slowly  reworded  the  son  of  La- 
ertes — 

"  That  I  will  do,  O  goddess  divine,  for  he  can 
outrun  me. " 

Then  when  the  ball  was  in  play,  she  cast  thick 
darkness  around  it. 

Also  around  Ulysses  she  poured  invisible  dark- 
ness. 

Under  this  cover,  taking  the  ball  he  passed 
down  the  middle, 

Silent  and  swift,  unseen,  unnoticed,  unblocked, 
and  untackled. 


82 


Gbe  <3reco*Crojan  Game 


Meanwhile  she  piled  the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans 
in  conglomeration. 

Much  like  a  tangle  of  pine  trees  where  lightning 
has  frequently  fallen  ; 

Or  like  a  basket  of  lobsters  and  crabs  which  the 
provident  housewife 

Dumps  on  the  kitchen  floor  and  vainly  endeav- 
ors to  count  them, 

So  seemed  the  legs  and  the  arms  and  the  heads 
of  the  twenty-one  players. 

Sudden,  a  shout  arose,  for  under  the  cross-bar, 
Ulysses, 

Visible,  sat  on  the  ball,  quietly  making  a  touch- 
down; 

On  the  tip  of  his  nose  were  his  thumb  and  fingers 
extended, 

Curved,  and  vibrating  slow  in  the  sign  of  the 
blameless  Egyptians. 

Violent  language  came  to  the  lips  of  the  hel- 
meted  Hector, 

Under  his  breath  he  murmured  a  few  familiar 
quotations, 

Scraps  of  Phrygian  folk-lore  about  the  kingdom 
of  Hades. 

Then  he  called  loud  as  a  trumpet,  "  I  claim  foul, 
Mr.  Umpire." 

"Touch-down  for  Greece,"  said  Nestor,  •* 'twixt 
you  and  me  and  the  goal-post 

"  I  lost  sight  of  the  ball  in  a  very  singular  man- 
ner." 


Derse 


Then    they    carried    the    sphere    back    to    the 

twenty-five  yard  line. 
Prone  on  the  ground  lay  a  Greek  —  the  leather 

was  poised  in  his  fingers. 
Thrice  Agamemnon  adjusted  the   sphere  with 

deliberation ; 
Then  he  drew  back  as   a  ram  draws  back  for 

deadly  encounter. 
Then  he  tripped  lightly  ahead,  and  brought  his 

sandal  in  contact, 
Right  at  the  point ;  straight  flew  the  ball  right 

over  the  cross-bar, 
While  like  the  cries  of  pygmies  and  cranes  the 

race-yell  resounded  — 

"Breck-ek,  kek-kex-koax  Anax   andron,  Agam- 
emnon ! " 

Chas.  Frederick  Johnson 


84 


Go as  Sbe  plagetb 


TO AS  SHE  PLAYETH 

SOFTLY  strike  upon  the  strings 
Till  the  answering  music  rings 
Like  the  ripple  of  a  stream 
Running  low  athwart  a  dream. 

Death  stalks  ever  on  the  earth, 
Grief  more  frequent  is  than  mirth  ; 
So,  half-grave  amid  the  gay, 
Let  my  fancies  idly  stray. 

While  thou  murmurest  'neath  the  moon, 
Humming  to  thy  strings  a  tune  — 
Half-forgotten  ballads  sweet  — 
In  the  shadows'  dim  retreat, 

Faces  rise  up  sharp  and  stern, 
As  the  souls  behind  them  yearn  — 
Dead  they  many  years  have  lain, 
"  Reviens  a  my" — 'tis  in  vain. 

Froissart  writing  of  the  knights, 
Villon  of  the  lost  delights, 
Drayton,  Suckling,  Lovelace  —  dead ; 
Where  they  passed  we  two  shall  tread. 


Derse 


Am  I  loved  as  once  were  they 
In  the  old,  impassioned  way  ? 
"  Oh  sont  les  neiges  ?  "  he  sang  ; 
Voices  sweet  as  thine  once  rang 

Clearly  as  thine  own  is  clear  — 
Melted  with  the  snows  last  year  — 
"  Suis-je,  suis-je,  suis-je-belle  ? 
Dictes-moy"    Who  now  can  tell  ? 

Though  enwrapt  with  tinkling  rhyme, 
Blotted  is  her  love  by  time. 
Since  the  flower  of  thy  face 
Bloometh  but  an  instant's  space, 

Let  us  through  our  moment's  span 
Love  each  other  while  we  can  — 
In  the  grave  to  which  we  go 
Thee,  perchance,  I  shall  not  know. 


Vacant  wandering  of  the  mind  ! 
Time  and  love  can  no  man  bind  ; 
Peace,  my  vainly  fluttering  heart  — 
"  Come,  then,  let  us  kiss  and  part. " 

Prosser  Hall  Frye 


Xife's  Greeting— 1Tn 


LIFE'S  GREETING 

AT  my  good  inn,  The  World,  you  may  have 
rest 

One  night,  fair  sir.     Eat,  drink,  be  merry  ; 
Then  up  at  dawn,  for  at  his  ferry, 
Death  waits,  and  for  thy  room  another  guest. 

Arthur  Leslie  Green 


IN  PASSING 

A  HAPPY,  laughing  child  with  no  thought  of 
the  morrow  — 
A  beggar,  worn  and  old,  who  crouches  at  his 

feet; 
Lo  !    For  a  moment  joy  is  face  to  face  with 

sorrow  — 

Then  both  are  lost  within  the  crowded  city 
street. 

William  French  Collins 


-IDerac 


PROB.  PHIL. 

AMISS  is  as  good  as  a  mile  ; 
A  kiss  twice  as  good  as  a  smile. 
Not  to  miss  any  kiss, 
But  to  kiss  every  miss, 
Will  turn  miles 

Into  smiles, 
And  smiles  into  kisses 

From  misses. 

For  the  maiden  who'll  smile 
Is  a  miss  worth  the  while 
If  your  walking  a  mile  ; 
But  the  damsel  you  kiss 
Is  worth  two  of  the  miss 
Who's  only  as  good  as  a  mile. 

Charles  Edward  Taylor 


88 


past  prime 


PAST  PRIME 

I   JUDGE  by  this  quiescence  I  am  old. 
I  watch  the  dark,  damp  shadows,  'neath  the 

hill 

At  eventide,  calmly ;  without  a  thrill 
I  see  the  glory  of  the  sunset  rolled 
Up  to  the  zenith ;  crimson  heaped  on  gold 
Moves  not  my  heart  so  still,  so  deadly  still ; 
Nor  those  last  notes  the  tender  thrushes  trill 
To  reassure  their  mates  while  shades  infold 
The  sombre  earth. 

Then  when  the  crickets  sing 
In  multitudes  their  simple  songs  that  show 
The  little  lives  beside  the  great,  they  bring 

No  longings  as  they  used  ;  while  to  and  fro 
The  winds  of  autumn  in  the  tree-tops  swing, 
But  have  no  voice  —  and  I  am  old  I  know. 

Prosser  Hall  Frye 


89 


Iflerse 


ODE  FROM  ANACREON 


I  FAIN  would  tune  the  cord 
To  praise  Mycenae's  lord, 
And  how  his  mighty  sword 
Laid  heaps  of  Phrygian  slain 
Upon  the  Trojan  plain, 
And  strive  to  raise  the  strain 
To  tell  the  Tyrian  chief's  renown, 
Who  built  the  mighty  Theban  town 

By  Dirce's  sacred  grove  ; 
But  evermore  my  lyre, 
With  trembling,  sweet  desire, 
Upon  its  throbbing  wire, 

Re-echoes  songs  of  love. 

Resolved  to  change  the  lay, 
I  threw,  the  other  day, 
My  plectrum  far  away, 
And  altered  every  string  ; 
Full  loudly  would  I  sing 
Of  many  an  ancient  king, 
And  how  Alcides,  strong  and  bold 
Was  raised  from  earth,  in  days  of  old, 
To  dwell  with  gods  above  ; 


90 


from  Bnacreon 


But  evermore  my  lyre, 
With  trembling,  sweet  desire, 
Upon  its  throbbing  wire, 
Re-echoes  songs  of  love. 

Of  haughty  lord  and  dame, 

Of  bloody  fields  of  fame, 

Of  those,  who,  for  a  name, 

Their  peace  and  honor  sell, 

I  can  no  longer  tell ; 

Ye  heroes,  all,  farewell ! 

The  clash  of  armor  I  forget, 

And  with  each  moment's  fancy  let 

My  listless  ringers  rove ; 
And  evermore  my  lyre, 
With  trembling,  sweet  desire, 
Upon  its  throbbing  wire, 

Shall  echo  songs  of  love  ! 

George  Otis  Holbrook 


IDerse 


MOTIVELESS 

I   PEER  into  those  laughing  eyes 
To  see  what  they  denote, 
If  she  my  love  will  e'er  despise  ; 
My  ardor  brings  with  feigned  surprise, 
"  You're  looking  for  the  mote  ?  " 

"Ah,  no  ! "    I  eagerly  insist, 
"My  motive  you  ne'er  dreamed, 

But  let  me  see,  e'er  I  desist, 

If  any  beams  for  me  exist," 
And  then  of  course  —  she  beamed. 

Harry  Safford  Candee. 


B  Sbg  Xittle 


THE  DANCE  OF  LIFE 

AND  as  I  watched  the  dance,  I  saw,  anon, 
A  hooded  spectre  beckon.     Waxen  wan 
A  gay  dame  sighed,  and  followed.     Some  few 

wept 
Awhile  —  but  still  the  merry  dance  went  on. 


A  SHY  LITTLE  MAID 

A  LOVE-LORN  lad  wooed  a  coy  maid  once, 
All  of  a  summer's  day  he  pled, 
Oft  he  spoke  of  the  bonds  of  love  —  the  dunce ! 
And  she  shyly  shook  her  head. 

When  from  his  heart  hope  had  almost  fled, 
He  spoke  of  bonds  he  had  in  town, 

Still  the  shy  little  maiden  shook  her  head, — 
But  she  shook  it  up  and  down. 


93 


Devsc 


"BRIEF  AS  WOMAN'S  LOVE" 

LOVE  me,  sweet,  a  summer's  day 
When  the  fields  are  all  grown  over 
With  the  eglantine  and  clover, 

For  a  summer's  day  is  long  — 
Love  me  from  the  sun's  first  ray 
Till  the  even-song ; 

From  the  moment  when  the  mist 
Rises  over  shoal  and  shallow 
And  the  marshes  where  the  mallow 

And  the  purple  iris  grow, 
Ere  the  gray-cold  sky  is  kissed 
To  a  lively  glow  ; 

While  the  vivid  roses  blush, 
Happy  in  their  lonely  hollow, 
Where  the  solitary  swallow 

Flits  by  them  at  early  morn, 
In  the  palpitating  hush 
As  the  day  is  born. 

When  the  afternoon  is  warm 
Let  us  sit  with  no  words  spoken 
Where  the  quietude  is  broken 
Only  by  the  whistling  quail 
And  the  bees'  incessant  swarm 
And  the  old  wives'  tale,  — 


94 


"JSrief  as  Roman's 


Sit  until  the  whip-poor-will, 
Sad  to  see  the  daylight  dwindling 
In  the  woodland,  at  the  kindling 

Of  the  glow-worm's  feeble  spark, 
Crieth  from  the  sombre  hill 
In  the  falling  dark. 

Love  me  so  a  summer's  day 

When  the  fields  are  all  grown  over 
With  the  eglantine  and  clover, 
For  a  day  is  short  at  best  — 
Love  me  till  the  sun's  last  ray 
Fadeth  from  the  West. 

Prosser  Hall  Frye 


95 


Dcrse 


SOLOMON 

THERE  is- a  story  told  of  that  great  King, 
Who,    through  his  love    for   God,  knew 

everything, 

That  one  day,  while  he  sat  and  prayed  alone 
In  his  great  hall  of  cedar  and  of  stone, 
That  suddenly,  within  the  sun's  clear  light 
He  saw  an  angel,  clothed  in  raiments  white, 
Holding,  within  its  outstretched  hands,  to  him 
A  crystal  goblet,  even  to  the  brim 
With  shining  fluid  —  and  the  Angel  said  ; 
"  O  King,  the  God  which  rules  both  qijick  and 

dead 

Has  ordered  me  that  I  this  cup  shall  give 
To  thee  alone,  that  thou  mayest  ever  live." 
And  as  it  spoke  it  vanished  on  the  wind, 
But  in  the  chamber  left  the  cup  behind. 
Then  did  the  King,  Wise  Solomon  the  Great, 
Call  all  his  ministers  and  hold  in  state 
A  council  of  the  wisest  in  his  land  ; 
And  when  he  ordered  silence  with  his  hand, 
There  fell  a  hush  so  great  that  e'en  the  bees 
Ceased  their  soft  hummings  in  the  almond  trees. 
Then  Solomon  arose,  and  told  them  all 
Of  that  sweet  Vision,  seen  in  his  great  hall, 
Told  of  the  visit  of  the  Angel  bright, 
Showed  them  the  cup  effulgent  with  soft  light, 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  he  said  with  '  bated  breath  ; 
"  Shall  I  drain  this  and  flee  forever  death  ? " 
96 


Solomon 


And  with  one  voice  they  cried  in  loud  accord, 
"Drink  up  the  cup  and  live  forever,  Lord  ! " 
And  then  he  called  each  bird  which  skims  the 

air, 

And  every  beast  which  lurks  in  mountain  lair. 
They  also  came  and  filled  the  summer  sky 
With  one  great  shout:    "  Drink  King  ;  and  never 

die  ! " 

All  but  one  voice  took  up  the  loud  acclaim 
Which  made  the  seven  hills  resound  again, 
And  to  the  throne  a  hedge-hog,  old  and  gray, 
'Midst  shouts  and  jeers  pursued  his  shuffling  way. 
And  when  he  reached  it  meekly  bowed  his  head, 
And  in  an  humble  voice  "  O  King  !  "  he  said, 
"  If  this  bright  water  could  be  shared  by  thee 
With  all  thy  friends  and  thy  whole  family, 
Then  to  the  Lord,  thy  glad  thank-offerings  give. 
Drink  of  the  cup  that  thou  and  thine  may  live. 
But  if  this  draught  is  offered  thee  alone, 
O  rather  pour  it  on  this  tesselled  stone  ! 
For  age  is  only  holy,  calm  and  still 
When  there  are  friends  who  journey  down  the 

hill 

Of  life  along  with  us,  and  by  their  care 
Make  of  old  age  a  blessing  doubly  rare." 
He  finished  speaking  :  and  a  moment  stood 
Judea's  King,  and  then  the  mantling  blood 
Surged  to  his  cheeks,  and  looking  proudly  'round 
He  grasped    the  cup  — and    dashed   it    to  the 

ground. 

Henry  Rutgers  Remsen 

7  97 


Grinitg  Werse 


i 


MARIGOLD 

LOVE  confinement  in  thy  bonds, 
1  love  thy  little  stock  to  hold, 
Thy  very  scent, 

Aye,  marigold  ! 


I'll  love  confinement  of  thy  bonds. 
I'll  love  thy  little  stocks  to  hold, 
Thy  every  cent, 

/  marry  gold ! 

Harry  Safford  Candee 


GHOSTS 

THERE  are  no  ghosts.     Could  they  return  to 
earth 

To  fright  their  friends  with  eerie  laughs, 
They  would  not  waste  their  time  in  idle  mirth  — 
They  would  erase  their  epitaphs. 


98 


OLove'6  Service 


LOVE'S  SERVICE 

OVE  called  to  a  young  man  winningly, 
'•  Come,  join  the  ranks  of  my  company, 
And  take  the  field  in  my  service." 


L 


But    the   young  man    said,    "There  are    other 

things 

Than  blushes  and  kisses  and  flowers  and  rings, 
Of  far  more  worth  than  your  service. 

"  There's  business  and  sport  and  pleasure  and  art; 
Your  war  is  a  folly,  your  weapon  a  dart ; 
I've  no  time  to  spare  for  your  service. " 

Love  turned  lightly  away  when  he  heard  the 

rebuff, 

For  young  volunteers  were  more  than  enough 
To  fill  up  the  ranks  of  his  service. 

But  Time,  going  past,  made  clear  to  the  man 
That  they  are  the  wisest  who  join  when  they 

can 
The  worshipful  ranks  of  Love's  service. 

So  the  man  brought  to  Love  his  jewels  and  coin; 
Forgetting  his  years,  he  thought  he  would  join 
The  throng  who  pressed  to  Love's  service. 


99 


Werse 


But  Love  answered  lightly,  "The  day  has  gone 

by; 

A  sere  autumn  leaf  is  too  thin  and  too  dry 
For  a  garland  worn  in  my  service. 

"  You  can  buy,  if  you  like,  a  friendly  regard, 
And  perhaps  it  may  seem,  if  you  try  very  hard, 
As  if  you  were  in  my  service. 

"  But  the  raw  recruits  for  my  household  guard 
I  take  from  the  young ;  the  old  are  debarred 
Frbm  the  Entrance  Exam,  to  my  service. 

44  The  countersign's  '  Youth.'    Can  you  give  it  ?  " 

"Ah,  no." 
"  Then  right  about  face.    You're  too  old,  and  to6 

slow 
To  learn  the  details  of  my  service." 


100 


Question  —  Gbe  IReason 


A  QUESTION 

THEY  tell  how  fast  the  arrow  sped 
When  William  shot  the  apple, 
But  who  can  calculate  the  speed 
Of  him  who's  late  for  chapel  ? 


THE  REASON 

i4  \  T  7HY  do  they  call  Commencement  so?  " 

V  V      The  maid  beside  me  queried, 
<4  Is  it  that  you  will  leisure  know, 
By  four  years'  study  wearied  !  " 

"Nay,  nay,  not  so,"  quoth  I,  "My  dear, 

'Tis  then  my  work  commences, 
'Tis  then  I  shape  my  own  career 

And  —  pay  my  own  expenses." 

William  Porter  Niles 


101 


\i)erse 


THE  MARRYIN'  OF  DANNY  DEEVER 
With  apologies  to  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling. 

\\  7  HAT  is  the  organ  playing  for?"  asked 

VV      the  little  maid. 
"  To  make  a  noise,  to  make  a  noise,"  the  dapper 

usher  said. 
"Why  do  you  look  so  sad,  so  sad?"  asked  the 

little  maid. 
"I've  got  to  see  my  best  friend  spliced,"  the 

dapper  usher  said. 
"For  they're   marryin'  Danny  Deever,  you  can 

hear  the  organ  play, 
He's  given  up  his  freedom,  so  they've  fixed  the 

church  up  gay, 
They're  playin'  of  the   weddin'  march  ;    this  is 

his  weddin'  day  ; 
For    they're    marryin'    Danny    Deever    in    the 

mornin'." 

"What    makes    those     front-pew    folks    look 

round?"  asked  the  little  maid. 
"  They  want  to  see  the  victim  quail,"  the  dapper 

usher  said. 
"  What  makes  'em  so  excited  ? "  asked  the  little 

maid. 
"They  like  to  see  the  noose  drawn  tight,"  the 

dapper  usher  said. 

102 


flfcarrgfn'  of  2>ann£  Deever 


"  They're  marryin'  Denny  Deever,  he's  march- 
in'  up  the  aisle, 

The  procession  is  a  movin',  slow-step  in  double 
file; 

Danny's  feelin'  pretty  wretched,  he  wears  a 
frightened  smile, 

They're  a -marryin'  Danny  Deever  in  the 
mornin'. " 

"I  knew  him  when  a  happy  boy,"  said  the  little 

maid, 
"His  happy  days  are  over,"  the  dapper  usher 

said. 
"He  used  to  play  from  morn  to  night,"  said  the 

little  maid. 
"He  won't  get  much  more  chance  to  play,"  the 

dapper  usher  said. 
"They're  marryin'  Danny  Deever,  he's  a-marchin' 

to  his  fate, 
He  can't  escape   the  women ;    they've  struck  a 

solemn  gait, 
Do  what  he  could  to  shirk  it,  he  had  to  fill  his 

date, 
They're  marryin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin." 

"  Why  don't  he  break  and  run  for  life  ? "  asked 

the  little  maid. 
"They'd  capture  him  in  no  time,"  the   dapper 

usher  said. 
"  Why  don't  he  send  a  sick  excuse  ?  "  asked  the 

little  maid. 


103 


Derse 


"It  wouldn't  do  in  this  place,"  the  dapper  usher 

said. 
"  They're  marryin'  Danny  Deever ;  he's  whiter 

than  a  sheet, 
They've  closed  on  him  in  front  and  rear  and 

cut  off  his  retreat, 
For  fear  he'd  jump  across  the  pews  and  rush  into 

the  street, 
While   they're  marryin'  Danny  Deever   in  the 

mornin'." 

"  What's  that  so  white  a-standing  there  ? "  asked 

the  little  maid, 

"  That  is  the  executioner,"  the  dapper  usher  said. 
"What  makes  him  look  so  serious?"  asked  the 

little  maid. 
"  He's  dreadin'  what  he's  got  to  do,"  the  dapper 

usher  said. 
They've  married   Danny  Deever,  you   can  hear 

the  organ  play, 
They're   coming  down  the   aisle   again,  they're 

marchin'  him  away, 

The  minister  is  waitin' ;  he'll  want  his  fee  to-day, 
After  marryin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 


104 


at  tbe 


AT  THE  PLAY 

IT  is  the  old,  old  story  once  again : 
The   faith  of  noble  men,  the   strength   of 

woman's  passion ; 

The  thwarting  of  base  deeds  by  loyal  hands, 
The  union  of  true  hearts  in  the  old  fashion. 

'Tis  strange  that  we  can  listen  to  the  play, 
And  feel  our  hearts  grow  warm,  our  eyes  grow 
dim  with  tears, 

In  looking  at  feigned  passions,  feigned  delights, 
In  musing  on  the  actor's  hopes  and  fears. 

But  when  the  curtain  falls,  and  we  arise, 
And  leave  the  lights  and  music,  the  glamour 
and  the  glow  ; 

'Tis  passing  strange  our  hearts  grow  cold  again 
And  stir  not  at  another's  weal  or  woe. 


105 


Dct&e 


AT  WHIST 

ACROSS  the  polished  table  there 
I  see  her  sitting  now,  her  hair, 
Her  eyes,  her  dainty  fingers,  too, 
Just  as  in  years  agone  I  knew, 
My  partner. 

I  led  a  heart  —  I  think  the  king  — 
It  passed  around  the  silent  ring, 
And  though  it  was  the  best  one  out, 
She  paused  a  moment,  half  in  doubt, 
Then  trumped  it. 

"  Oh  partner,  that  was  the  command," 
She  said  when  she  had  played  the  hand, 
Then  wrinkling  up  her  pretty  brow, 
"  You  will  forgive  me,  won't  you  now, 
For  trumping?  " 

Another  night,  remembered  well, 
She  sat  where  moon-cast  shadows  fell. 
No  polished  table  lay  between ; 
The  tree  boughs  made  a  waving  screen 
Above  her. 

We  talked  of  other  things  than  whist, 
I  strove  her  fancy  to  enlist 
With  all  a  lover's  gentle  art, 
Yet  once  again  I  led  my  heart, 
Unguarded. 


106 


Bt  TObfst 


I  led  my  heart  again,  my  last ; 
When  round  to  her  the  trick  had  passed 
She  thought  it  not  the  best  one  out, 
So  paused  a  moment,  half  in  doubt, 
Then  trumped  it. 

This  time  no  pleading  glance  I  caught, 
No  trembling  lips  forgiveness  sought, 
No  eyes  with  lashes  drooping  wet, 
Told  me  my  partner  did  regret 
To  trump  it. 

Frederick  William  Newshafer 


107 


IDerac 


ALL  IN  THE  NAME 

WHY  called  they  this  the  month  of  May  ? 
Of  nick-names  pray  be  wary  — 
For  oysters  we  might  eat  to-day 
Had  they  but  called  it  Mary. 

William  Porter  Niles 


A  SENIOR'S  PLEA 

EAR  Father  :  Once  you  said  '  My  son 

To  manhood  you  have  grown  ; 
Make  others  trust  you,  trust  yourself, 
And  learn  to  stand  alone ! ' 

Now,  father,  soon  I  graduate, 
And  those  who  long  have  shown 

How  well  they  trust  me,  want  their  pay, 
And  I  can  stand  a  loan." 

John  Curtis  Underwood 


108 


B  jfearfut  Strait 


A  FEARFUL  STRAIT 

WILL  chapel  wait 
A  minute  late  ? 
It  is  my  fate 
At  half-past  eight, 
Insatiate, 
To  suffocate 
From  what  I  ate. 
Procrastinate, 
Thou  vertebrate, 
Who  guard'st  the  gate. 
You  whom  I  hate, 
With  hate  so  great, 
Inveterate, 
That  here  I'll  state, 
Unless  you'll  wait 
A  minute  late, 
We'll  separate 
Till  half-past  eight 
Six  weeks  from  date. 

Charles  Edward  Taylor 


109 


Ifleree 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLAG 

THUNDERS  mutter  from  the  distant  prairie, 
Smothered  fires  creep  within  the  mine, 
From  the  pent  lungs  of  our  steaming  cities 
Reeling  mists  arise,  an  awful  sign. 

Not  for  vanity,  for  ease  aud  folly 
Is  our  fathers'  heritage  bequeathed, 

Teach    us,    O    thou    blood-stained,    star-bright 

banner, 
Not  to  lose  the  spirit  that  they  breathed. 

Teach  us,  while  our  lives  are  young  before  us, 
By  what  they  have  done  what  we  should  do; 

Teach  us  patient  courage,  faith  in  freedom, 
Teach  us  to  be  temperate,  wise,  and  true. 

"  We  are  in  His  hand  who  brought  us  over," 
Who  hath  shaped  and  fashioned  us  a  race, 

Death  and  darkness  shall  not  overtake  us 
While  the  land  looks  upward  to  God's  face. 
Henry  Marvin  Belden 


1 10 


farewell  Song 


FAREWELL  SONG. 

WE  wreathe  the  cup  with  a  laurel  crown, 
•  In  its  bubbling  glee  our  sighs  we  drown, 
And  meet  with  a  smile  the  world's  dark  frown, 
At  Trinity. 

Yet  breathe  a  prayer  for  a  bygone  day, 
And  those  beloved  who  have  passed  away, 
Though  our  hearts  shall  hold  them  fast  alway, 
At  Trinity. 

God  keep  us  free  from  the  cold  of  years, 
And  the  faith  of  our  loves  from  selfish  fears, 
Lest  the  cup  be  dashed  from  lips  with  tears, 
At  Trinity. 

And  once  again  lift  the  glasses  high, 
And  hide  the  tear  that  dims  each  eye, 
'  Tis  a  way  we  have  when  we  say  good-by, 
At  Trinity. 


Grfnttg  IDerse 


L 'ENVOY 

TXfHERE  the  cliffs  of  Brittany 

Silent  watch  the  sounding  deep, 
Sunk  in  an  enchanted  sleep, 
Lies  a  city  'neath  the  sea. 

Thence,  I  have  heard  peasants  telling, 

When  the  moon  is  hanging  low, 
And  the  ocean  scarce  seems  swelling, 

In  its  silent  ebb  and  flow, 
Softly,  sadly  comes  a-stealing 

Over  all  the  country  side, 
Sounds  of  fairy  bells  a-pealing 

In  the  sainted  even-tide 
And  the  soul  which  learns  that  music 

Lives  forever  satisfied. 

So  from  life's  untroubled  ocean, 

In  our  golden  even-time, 
We  shall  hear  with  glad  emotion 

Echoes  ringing  —  chime  on  chime; 
And  our  hearts,  those  swiken  cities 

Stored  ^vith  thoughts  of  former  days 
Soft  shall  sing  us  olden  ditties 

Of  our  college  life  and  ways  ; 
And  the  soul  which  learns  that  music 

Never  longs  for  newer  lays. 


TD 


863737 


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